
P'DdiM^ (fiwmJ - ^ %J__ 



^^cU.U M.!"^^ 



THB 

WORKS 

OP 

ROBERT BURNS 

CONTAINING HIS LIFE; 

BT 

JOHN LOCKHART, ESQ. 

THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE 

OF DR. CURRIE'S EDITION; 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET. 

BY HIMSELF GILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR STEWART. iiND OTHERS ; 

ESSAY ON SCOTTISH POETRY 

INCLUDINO 

THE POETRY OF BURNS, BY DR. CUillUEj 

BURNS'S SONGS, 

PHOM JOHNSON'S " MUSICAL MUSEUM," AND " THOMPSON'S SELECT MELODIES 

SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS OP THE OTHER POETS 

FROM THB BEST COLI.ECTIONa, 

WITH BURNS'S REMARK^. 

aVtlNG, IN ONE WORK, THE TRUEST EXHIBITION OP THE MAN AND THB POET, AND TB* 
FULLEST EDITION OF HIS POETRY AND PROSE WRITINGS HITHERTO PUBLISHED. 

WORLD PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

139 EIGHTH STREET, 

NEW YORK. 

1875. 



Gift 

^^''^ HUTCHE80M. 

8 06 



/ 



//^ 



PREFACE lO THE FIRST EDITION. 



The f&frotring trifles art not the production of the poet, who,- with all 
the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- 
ness of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus 
or Virgil. To the author of this, these and other celebrated names their 
countrymen are, at least m their original language, a fountain shut up, and 
a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing 
poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him- 
self and rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. — 
Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse 
of ^.l.^ softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps 
the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think 
any thing of his worth showing ; and none of the following works were com- 
posed with a vieAr to the press To amuse himself with the little creations 
of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe 
the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own 
breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, al- 
ways an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were 
his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be 
itg own reward 

Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does ii 
with fear and trembling. 80 dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even 
he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being 
branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the 
world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch 
rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, 
forsooth ! ^ 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, wnose divine eli> 
g.e: do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility 
has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" 
If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells him once for all, 
that he certaiiily looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, 
.•therwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre 
below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever 
give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the 
")oor, ur^fortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, 
that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre- 
tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his 
2ye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, 
than for servile imitation. 



I PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION 

To his subscribers, the author returns his most sincere tftanks "^tt the 
mercc^nary bow over a counter, but the heart- throbbing gratitude of the 
bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gra- 
*^^'ing him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom— 
ye distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the 
iite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every al- 
)wance tor education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, can- 
did, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and non- 
aense, let him he done by as he would in that case do by others — let hiaw 
be odnd^mnedj without mercy to contempt and oblivion. 



Iw tlie Detiicaiion of the Life of Burns by Dr. Currie to his friend Cap 
lain Graham Moore, the learned Doctor thus expresses himself as to hi» 
Editorial office : — " The task was beset with considerable difficulties, and 
' men of established reputation naturally declined an undertaking, to the 
" performance of which it was scarcely to be hoped that general approoa- 
" tion ould be obtained by any exertion of judgment or temper To such 
" an office my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occu- 
" pations, were certainly little suited. But the partiality of Mr. Syme 
*' thought me, in other respects, not unqualified ; and his solicitations 
•* joined to ^hose of our excellent friend and relation, Mrs. Dunlop, and oi 
" other friends ®f the family of the poet, 1 have not been able to resist." 

Tiese sentences contain singular avowals. They are somehow apt to 
BUggLSt, wnat we have all henrd before, that some are born to honour, 
while other* have honours thrust upon them. The Doctor's squeamishness 
in favour of persons of established reputation^ who might be chary of a tick- 
lish and impracticable, if not an odious task, is in ludicrous contrast with the 
facts as they have since fallen out. Have we not seen the master-spirits 
of the age, Scott, Byron, Campbell, honouring in Burns a kindred, if not a 
superior genius, and, like passionate devotees, doing him homage .' They 
have all voluittarHy written of him ; and their recorded opinions evince no 
feelings of shyness, but the reverse ; they not only honour, but write as it 
honoured by their theme. But let us leave the subject, by merely pointing 
attention to the Doctor's mode of treating it., as a decisive test of the evil 
days and evil tongues, amidst which the poet had fallen, and of the exis- 
tence of that deplorable party-spirit, during which the facts involving his 
character as a man, and his reputation as a poet, could neither be cor- 
rectly stated, nor fairly estimated. 

It is true, Dr. Currie's Life contained invaluable materials. The poet's 
auto-biographical letter to Dr. Moore, — indeed the whole of his letters, — 
the letters of his brother Gilbert, — of Professor Dugald Stewart, — of Mr, 
Murdoch and of Mr. Syme, and the other contributors, are invaluable ma- 
lerlu's. They form trulv the verv bacj»bone of the poet's life, as edited b> 



i «i ) 

Dr Currie. They must ever be regarded as precious relics ; and howevei 
largely they may be used as a part of a biographical work, they ought also 
to be presented in the separate form, entire ; for, taken in connection with 
the general correspondence, they will be found to be curiously iliastrative 
of the then state of society in Scotland, and moreover to contain manifold 
and undoubted proofs of the diffusion and actual ex'iStence, amongst Scots- 
men of all degrees, of that literary talent, w hich nad only been inferred, 
bvT^othetically, from ♦he nature of her elementary institutions. 

vVe have no wish to detract from the high reputation of Dr. Currie. 
It will however be remarked, that the biographical part of his labours 
as stated by himself, involve little beyond the office of redacteur. — He 
was not upon the spot, but living in England, and he was engaged with 
professional avocations. If truth lies at the bottom of the weU, he had nei- 
ther the time nor the means to fish it up. Accordingly, it is not pretended 
that he proceeded upon his own views, formed, on any single occasion, after 
a painful or pains-taking scrutiny ; or that, in giving a picture of the man 
and the poet, he did more than present to the public what had come to 
him entirely at second-hand, and upon the authority of others ; however 
tainted or perverted the matter might have been, from the then general- 
ly diseased state of the public mind. The Life of the poet, compiled undei 
such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in 
justice in various respects, particularly as to his personal habits and mora' 
character. These were represented with exaggerated and hideous features 
unwarranted by truth, and having their chief origin in the malignant viru 
lence of party strife. 

The want of a Life of Burns, more correctly drawn, was long felt. This 
is evident from the nature of the notices bestowed, in the periodicals oi 
the time, upon the successive works of Walker and Irving, .vho each ol 
them attempted the task of his biographer ; and upon t!.e publications oi 
Cromek, who in his " Heliques," and " Select Scotti^h Songs," brought tc 
light much interesting and original matter. But these attempts only whet- 
ted and kept alive the general feeling, which was not gratified in its full 
extent until nearly thirty years after the publication of Dr. Currie' t work. 
It was not until 1827 that a historian, worthy of the poet, appeared in the 
person of Mr. John Lockhart, tho son-in-law of ISir Walter Scott, and (ra- 
ther a discordant title), Editor of the London Quarterly Review. He la 
that year published a Life of Burns, both in the separate form, and as a part 
of that excellent repertory known by the title of Constables Mtscellumf. 

It is only necessary to read Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, to be satisfied 
of his qualifications for the task, and that he has succeeded in putting 
them, after an upright and conscientious manner, to the proper use. It 
certainly appears odd, that a high Tory functionary should stand out the 
champion of the Bard who sung, 

*•" A man's a man for a' that :** 

and who, because of his democratic tendencies, not only missed of public 
patronage, but moreover had long to sustain every humiliation and indirect 
persecution the local satellites of intolerance could fling upoh him. But the 
lapse of time, and the spread of intelligence, have done much to remove 
prejudices and soften asperities ; to say nothing of that independence of 
mind which always adheres to true genius, and which the circumstances 
!ii the poet's history naturally roused and excited in a kindred snirit, Mr 



Lockhart, it will farther be observed, besides having compiled bis m,r\-' - - 
der circumstances of a general nature much more favourable to accuratt 
delineation, likewise set about the task in a more philosophical mannei 
than the preceding; biographers. He judged for himself ; he took neithet 
facts nor opinions at second-hand ; but inquired, studied, compared, and 
where doubtful, extricated the facts in the most judicious and careful man 
ner. It may be said, that that portion of the poet's mantle which invested 
his sturdiness of temper, has fallen upon the biographer, who, as the poet 
did, always thinks and speaks for himself. 

These being our sentiments of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, we have 
preferred it, as by far the most suitable biographical accompaniment of the 
present edition of his works. It has been our study to insert, in this edi- 
tion, every thing hitherto published, and fit to be published, of which 
Burns was the author. The reader will find here all that is contained 
in Dr. Carrie's edition of 1800, with the pieces brought to light by all the 
respectable authors who have since written or published of Burns. — The 
following general heads will show the nature and extent of the present 
work. 

1. The Life by Lockhart. 

2. Tlie Poems, as published in the Kilmarnock and first Edinburgh edition, 

with the poet's own prefaces to these editions, and also as published 
in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800; having superadded the pieces since 
brought forward by Walker, Irving, Morison, Paul, and Cromek. 

3. Essay (by Dr. Currie), on Scottish Poetry, including the Poetry oi 

Burns. 

4. Select Scottish Songs not Burns's, upwards of 200 in number, and many 

of them having his Annotations, Historical and Critical, prefixed. 

5. Burns's Songs, collected from Johnson's Musical Museum, the larger 

work of Thomson, and from the publications of Cromek, Cunningham, 
and Chalmers, nearly 200 in number. 

6. The Correspondence, including all the Letters published by Dr. Currie, 

besides a number subsequently recovered, published by Cromek and 
others. 

The whole forming the best picture of the man and the poet, and the only 
complete edition of his writings, in one work, hitherto offered to the public 
Besides a portrait of the poet, executed by an able artist, long familiar with 
the original picture by Nasmyth, there is also here presented, (an entire 
novelty), a fac-simile of the poet's handwriting. It was at one time mat- 
ter of surprise that the Ploughman should have been a man of genius and 
a poet. If any such curious persons still exist, they will of course be like' 
arise surprised to find that he was so good a penmaa. 



NiEW YottK,Sept U, 1832. 



CONTENTS OF BURNS'S WORKS. 



OF THE LIFE. 

Pagt 

Chap. I —The Foetus Birth, 17A9— Circumstances arrd peculiar Character of his 
Father and Mother— Hardships of his early years— Sources, such as they werc> of 
his Mental Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 16, >.>. .^ — i— to! 

Chap. II — From 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as 
Labourers, at stated Wages — At rural work the Poet feared no competitor — This 
period not marked by much Mental Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro- 
gress in Love and Poetry — At School at Kirkoswald's— Bad Company — At Ir- 
vine — Flaxdressing — Becomes there Member of a Batchelor's Club, ---.-.^ ix— xii 

Crap. Ill — The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Mossgiel — 
Their incessant labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — Not 
Prosperous — The Muse anti-calvinistical — The Poet thence involved deeply in 
local polemics, and charged with heresy — C!urious account of these disputes — 
Early poems prompted by them — Origin of, and remarks upon the Poet's prin- 
cipal pieces — Love leads him far astray — A crisis — The Jail or the West Indies 
— The alternative, xx — ^zxziv 

Chap. IV — The Poet gives up Mossgiel to his Brother Gilbert — Intends for Ja- 
maica — Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit; — 
One of 600 copies printed at Kilmarnock, 17B6 — It brings him extended repu- 
tation, and £20— Also many very kind friends, but no patron — In these circum- 
stances, Guaging first hinted to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — 
Sayings and doings in the first year of his fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan 
aesisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blacklock to publish at Edin- 
burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, . -.^ ^-^ xxxv.'-lxiif 

Chap. V The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7— By his advent, the condition 

of that city — Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic — is lightei 
up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a while ca- 
ressed by the fashionable — What happens to him generally in that new world, 
and his behaviour under the varying and very trying circumstances — The tavern 
life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all former experience by 
bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally admitted, as 
not the least of his talents— The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by it, 
while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, 
which yields much money to the Poet — Resolves to visit the classic scenes of his 
own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back 
to the region of poverty and seclusion, ^^ ^~^..> Ixiv— Hd 

Chap. VI Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first 

of tliese, after an absence of six months, amongst his friends in the *' Auld Clay 
Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends 
during those pUgrhiiages, and is familiar with the great, but never secures one 
effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the 
fleshpots, winter 1787-8 — Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised 
limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the Excise — Another 
crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop 
not to desert him — Growls over liis publisher k<ut afcer settling with him leaves 
Edinburgh with £600 — Steps towards a more regular life, .^~-, Ixii — Ixxr 

Crap. VII. — Marries— Announcements, (apologctical,) of the event — Remarks — 
Becomes (1788) Farmer at Elliesland on the Nith. in a romantic vicinity, six 



-« CONTENTS. 

" Pagi 

mil« from Dumfnes-The Muse wakeful as evei^ ^^j^^,,*/ ?^ ™^k?u^J! 
Taried and extensive literary correspondence with aU and f ""/jT-^fn^ks "^^^ 
the correspondence-Sketch of his person and habite at ^^"f "^"^f^^l^^J^^^^^l 
poet, who shews cause against success in t^rming-The untoward conjunrtW 
feauger to Farmer-The^otice of the squirearchy, ^"^ *he caW^^^^ 
visiters, lead too uniformly to the ultra convivial life-Leaves Llhesland (1791) 
to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, ^-— 

Chap. VIII.-Is more beset in town tlian country-His ^arly biographers, (Dr. 
Currie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head-It is not Correct 
to sneak of the Poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitarv drinker, or of his 
Jev?ls as other thS ?ccasion5l, or of their having injerferecf ^th the punctual 
dllcharce of his official ckties— He is shown to have been the affectionate and be- 
loved husband aXugh massing follies imputed ; and the constant and most as- 
Sous Su tor of his children-Impulses of the French R«vol«tion...Symp. 
toms of fraternizing— The attention of his official superiors is called to them— 
Sticallv no bS^i inflicted, only the bad name-Interestmg details of this pe- 
riod Giverhis wTiolesoul to song making-Preference in tV for his native 
dS;;, whh the other attendant facts, as to that portion of his immortal lays, _ 

CH.P. IX.-The Poe^-nal Perio^^^^^^^^ 

^'"^^tlTr^^lut^^^^^^ DaugSL-The 'poet ^^^^^^^^^ 

— l^nagnn ^f"'" ' » ^ ^ . n-,- jrgnius — the appropriation of which 

Ke&XthTcl^Swt^ldearM,^ merely the TifeuLHiB ™gn^i. 
IS deoaceu lor inc v j interviews conversations, and addresses as a 
niity when d^atl is at hand , JJ^^.^^pJbUc fumral, at which many attend, and 
^^"'^.^Te*;St tiiffutie P emier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- 
knnXi the Po livTng-HSfamUy t/unificen,ly provided for" by the public 
iTnSof Thatct^^^^^^ integrity', religious state, and genius-fetnctures 
upon him and his writings by Scott, CampbeH, Byron, and otiiers 

Verses on the death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool, ,,.,.. 

Character of Burn> and his Writings, by Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddefl, _ 

Preface to the Fii^t Edition )f Burns's Poeiiis, printed in Kilmarnock, ^ 

OrfJcatitm ^o the Caledonia • Hunt, prefixed to the Edinburgh Edition, ^ 



.xA—as 



CX—CXXXIT 

^ cxxxv 

«, exxxvii 
,^ clxiB 



CONTENTS OF THE POEMS 



%BatclsEprapn, ^ 

address to a rkiggis, 

o a Lady, - 

to a Louse, . 

to a Mouse, 



to Colonel de Peyster 
to Edinburgh 



to General Demourier, — 

to J. Syme, 

to Mr. Mitchell, 

to Mr. William Tytler, 
to Robert Graham, Esq. 
to the Deil, — 
to the Owl, 



to the Shade of Thomson, 



to the Scotch Representatives 

to the Toothache, 

to the LTnco Guid, --—^ 
A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, -.-~~w. 
A Dream (a Birth-day Ode to the King), 

A Grace before Dinner,., — ■ 

Answer to a Tax Surveyor, ^^,^ 

A Prayer in Piospect of Death,, 

in Anguish, 

A Sketch, ^ 



A Winter Night,^-^...^ 
A Vision,. ""■ 



Page. 

^ 55 
^ 40 
^ 73 
^ 42 
^ 'i9 
^ 74 
43 
83 
17 
74 
6) 
.51 
14 
82 
55 
4 
75 
22 
41 
18 
75 
-.^- 72 
. 56, 78 
38,78 
^^ 82 
29 



Lament for James Earl of Glencaim,- 



lur aamca c^aii ui v..t;>.vo....,.."--.'. ■ 

for a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies, 

Lines left at a Friend's House, ^.^ > ■'" 

left at Carron, 



„'*S 



leiL ill. v^ni n">, ~.».~~.«~~-'~— ~.~— — ~ 

left at Friar's Carse Hermitage, ,. 

left at Tavmouth Inn, : — 

on a Posthumous Child, ^.-^.^-^^ 

on a Wounded Hare, ^ - 

on Bruar Water, ^ — >^-^ 

on Captain Grose, ,~^~ — -^^^^^^ — 

on Miss Cruikshanks,... »»• 

on Religion 



Death and Dr Hornbook, 

Despondency, an Ode, ~^^~. 
a Hymn, 



Eegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, 

on William Creech, 

on Peg Nicolson,., — ,.^..-,,..,^.--~. 
Tam Samson, *- 



^ S'2 

- 78 

^ 49 

^ 76 

.- 77 

^ 23 



on Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop, ^^~~ 

on Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit, 

on the Death of J. Macleo<l, .,~*^ 

on the Fall of Fyers, .^^^ .,., — ~ 

on the Highlands, .^~..~--~, — -~ •"'-'~^' 

on William Sinellie, ~-~ ~— 

to a Mountain Daisy,,. ~ — ^,,^,~- 

to an Otfended Friend, ~,~. — -- — — ~- 

to an Old Sweetheart with his Poems, ^.,,^ 
to 8 Yotmg Lady with Books, ~ 
to Mis L. with Bcattie's Poems, 
to Robert Graham, Esq 
to Ruin, 



to Sir John Whitefoord,. 



on the Year 1788, 



Epistle to a Voung Friend, ~,, 

to Captain Riddel,,-~~— —— 
to Davie, a Brother Poet (1), 
to Davie, a Brother Poet (2), 

to Gavin Hamilton, — ^ 

to J. Lapraik, a Scots Poet, 
to J. Rankin with Poems, - 

to Mr. Macadam, ~>.' 

to Terraughty, ^ — - 

to the Reverend Mr. M'Math. 

to W. S. Ochiltree, 

E];ritaph on a Friend, 



39 



30 

^ 59 

. 79 

43, 45, 79 

47 



on a Noisy Polemic,- 
on a Ruling Elder,-^ 
on Gavin Hamilton, . 
on R. A itk en, ,,*-*»-« 
on the Poet's Father, 
on Wee Johiiny, ^ 



Kxtempore Effusions in the Court of Session, 

on Falsehood,,^ 

to a Friend, -... — >. 

to Mr. Syme, 



Refusal to Dine, . 
when at Carlisle, . 



Halloween, 
Holy Fair, - 



Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day, — 
Inscription, Altar of Independence, 

Lament of Queen Mary, ...~.. » 



Man was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, .; ^ 

Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph,- 

New- Year's Day, a Sketch, .^.^ •'~~~' 

Ode on a Miserly Character, 
on my Early Days, — 
on Pastoral Poetry, — -~. 
on the Death of Sir James 
to Liberty, — ~ 



Hunter Blair, ^^ 



Poor Maillie's Elegy, •>>>•»'■ 

Scotch Drink, • — ~- ~-^'' 

Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Riddel, 
Stanzas on Death, ^^^-^ ^^.-..--^^.^^ 

Strathallan's Lament,,. — .^ — ~ 



Tam'o' Sh.mter 



4C 

57 
68 
48 
58 
59 
f>4 
51 
5« 
56 
78 
76 
58 
57 
59 
76 
71 
58 
74 
62 
73 
39 
75 
39 
52 

35 
71 



Tam Samson's Elegy and Epitaph, ~. 

The Auld Farmer*s New-Year's SaluUtion to his 

Brifjs o' Ayr, .,..-.-.»•>>>.. — ~ - ~' " ~-~ 

Calf, ,,-,,-. — — ' 

Cotter's Saturday Night, ^....^ -^- - ^ ~ 

Death and Dying Words of Poor Maillie, -» 

First Psalm,«->,~. — ~ — -^'^ " """ 

First Six Verses of 90th Psalm, ..~^,,,,~- 

Henpecked Husband,--,,,. -,.>.-„ — >,>, 

Jolly Beggars, ,„,--«„,„^ — 

Kirk's Alarm, „~- ^~,,~ — ^ — - 

Lament on a Friend's Love Disappointment, 

Newspaper, ,„>,., — .~,,~- 

Ordination, ^...^^ — ~ — ^,,,~- -— 

Twa Dogs, ~,~^ ... .„„ 

Twa Herds, — „,. w,,,,,,,,- 

Whistle, ~— — -— — • 

Vision, 



Vowels, a Tal( 
Winter, a Dirge,,^ 



53 
92 

28 
10 
14 
33 
le 
31 
38 
68 
62 
6i 
31 
7C 
M 
1 
67 
59 



33 



Essay on Scottish Poetry (Dr. Currie), ,.,.<..^ 84-4P 



CONTENTS OF THE SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS. 



indrew and hw Cu.ty Gun,^^ — 

\nnie l^awrie, .... : >... ' " 

S% I wont out in a May Morning, 
A.uld Rub Morris, ,^.,.*,.^,,,-~, — 

Robin Gray, ~~. 

Aye waukiii' O.. — . r..~ 

A waukrile Minny, ,,.»> 

Awa Whigs Awa, .>>.>^ 



Beds of Swe^t Roses, 
Bess the Tfai kie,. 
Bessy Bell ani Mary Gra> 
Bide ve Vet t ? sets), ~. 



Blink o'er th( Burn Sweet Betty, 
Blue BonnetF over the Border, — 

Bonnie Barbara Allan, ^^^..^^ 

Dundee, ..^.^.^...r,,.. 



Mary Hay, — 



Pagt- 

^ 148 
^ 173 
^ 187 
^ 17H 
^ 137 
^ lAfi 
^ 113 
^ 184 

^ 1?0 
HI 

178 

\-y> 

114 

156 

17>^ 
1,51 

!57 



Jockev said to Jenny, j. <>..>. 

John Hay's Bonnie La.ssie. 
John o' Badenyon, .~.,.>>>>, 

Johnny Co^e,...,^. > 

Johnny Faa, ^^.^-^^ 

Johnny's Gray Breeks, 

Jumpin John, ,.,■... .■>->" 



.1% 

^ 114 



Kate of Aberdeen,.--,^ ..,. ,>^ 

Kathnne Ogie, .•> " 

Keep the Country Bonnie Lassie, ~- 
Kelvin Grove, 



Kenmure's on and awa Willie, 

Killvcrankie (the Battle), . . 

Killycrankie O (the Braes), — 
Kind Robin Iocs me, ~ 



Came ye o'er frae France, 

Carle hh' the King come, 

Caukl Kail in Aberdeen,^-. 
Ca the Kwes to the Knowes, 

Charlie is my Darling, 

Clout the Cau'ilron 

Cock pen 

Come under my Plaidie, 

Comin' thro' the Rye, 

Coin Rigs are Bonnie, 

Crail Town (Iram Coram Dago), 

Cromlei's Lilt, ^ ^^^^^ 



Oinna think Bonnie Lassie,. 

Donald Coupar, ^ 

Down the Burn Davie,- 



Dumbarton's Drums.,r..~~.*-- 
Dusty Miller, ~—**-~~.~~— 

Ettrick Banks, <.^..i,~~>.. > .>.>. 



Fair Annie of Lochroyan, 

Fairlv Shot of Her, 

False" Love aid hae ye Played Me This, 

Farewell to Ayrshire,. 

Fare ye weel my Auld Wife, — 

For Lack o' Gol 1 She's left me, 

For the Sake o' Somebody, ,.— 

Fye gar rul) her o'er wi* Straw, 



Get up and Bar the Door O, 

Go to Berwick Johnie, 

Slide Yill Comes and Gude Yill Goes,- 

Hame never cam* He, 



Haud awa frae me Donald, ..^....-.^ 
Hap and row the Feetie o't,.^ — ...> 
Here's a Health to them that's awa,. 

Hey ca' through, 

Highland Laddie, ......... .» 

Hoolv and Fairlie ..............^ 

Hughie Graham, . ..-.......>, 



I had a Horse and I had nae mair, 
I'm o'er V'ouiig to Marry Vet, 
ril never leave Ye, 

I loo'd nae a Laddie but ane, .». .. 

Jenny Dang the Weaver, 

If yc'il be mv Dawtie and sit on my Plaid, 
In the Garb of Old Gaul, 



18? ' 
157 
1'29 
146 
152 
103 
145 
15X 
!--,6 
12" 
153 
11" 

1.'7 
160 
l!4 
127 
158 

. 178 

. 102 
153 
154 
172 
154 
127 
165 
105 

127 
154 
161^ 
123 

185 
176 
159 
155 
155 
108 
134 
149 



Lady Mary Ann,...^ ■ 

Lass gin ye Loe me tell me now. 
Lassie lie near me.....^...^. — ->-..^- 
Lewis Gordon, 



Little wat ye wha's comin , 
Lochaber no more, -,~ — - 

Lochnagar, ^ --.^ 

Logan Braes, (double set), 
Logie o' Buchan,. 



Lord Ronald, my Son, — ~ 
Low down in the Broom, 



Macpherson's Rant, — >■"• >"* 

Ma^^gie Lauder, ,.„.,„..,., 

Mary's Dream, ..~—-~ ^-^...v,.^.. 

Mary Scot, the Flower o' V arrow, ..- 
Merry hae I been Teeihmg a Heckle, 
Mill, Mill, 0,.~~. ^..,.....~,~. 



My Auld Man, 

My Dearie, if thou Die, — 

My Jo Janet, 



My Love she's but a Lassie yet, — 

My Love's in (.ermanie, ^ ^..-.^ 

My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er me,.. 

My Native Caledonia, -~-~- 

Mv only Joe and Dearie O, ~ — ~~. 
My Wift-'s a Wanton Wee Thmg,.. 
My Wile has taen the Gee, ^ 

Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky O, 



144 

L43 
136 

106 
159 

107 
163 
159 
156 
185 
147 
160 
173 

146 
163 
164 
. 119 
. 160 
. 186 
. 184 
. 1 50 
. 155 
. 149 
. 164 

. 125 
. 121 
. 112 
, 124 
. 164 
, 128 
. 165 
. 118 
. 11'3 
. 165 
. 174 
. 1«2 
^ 167 
., 153 



O an* ye were Dead Gudeman, .~-. 
O can ye labour Lea Young Man,. 
Och hey Johnny Lad, 



170 

167 



O dear Minny what shall 1 do, 

O merry may the Maid be, ^..^^ 

O on ocbrio (the Widow of Glenco}, 

Old King Coul,.. — 



Our Guidman cam' Hame at E'en, 
O'er the Muir amang the Heather, 
O'er Bogie wi' my Love,~-~- 
O Waly, Waly up yon Bar.k, 



Polwarth on the Green,..~-~~. 
Poverty parts Gude Company, 



Rosliti Castle,-.- 
Roy's Wife,-~.. 



Sae Merry as We hae been, . 
Sandy o'er the Lea, .-..--,>... 
Saw ye Johnny Comin*, -~». 
Saw ye my Father, .....^m. 



161 
160 
183 
119 
1C8 
161 
15C 

is.- 

•12S 
185 



103 

170 

lie 

16S 
10! 



COVTE^TS. 



IS 



^av.' ye nae my Peggy, 
She njse and iet me in, 
FlecT her up an<1 haurt her paun 

Strephon and Lydia, >„. <^~,>. 

Symoii Brodie, J^—v .>....,.^,^^. 



Tak' yotir Auld Cioan about you 

Tarn o* the Balloch, 

Tarrv Woo, 



The Aiild Man s Mare's dead, 
The Auld Wife ayont the Fire 
The Battle o' Sherra-muir 

The Ranks o' the Tweed. ^ 

The Beds o* Sweet Roses 

The Birks or Invermav, 

The Blvthesome Bridal 
The Bl-ithrie o't 
The Bnatie rows. 



The Bob of Dumblane, 
The bonnie briicket F^assie 
TISe bonnie Lass o' Brankso ne. 



The bonnie Lass that made the Bed t 

The Brae^ o' Ballendean 

The brisk young Lad. 

The Brume o' the Cowdenknowes 

The Bush ab )on Trarjuair, 

The Campbells are comin', 

The Carle he cam' o'er the Craft, 

The Coallier's bonnie Lassie, 

The Evvie wi' the Crookit Horn 

The Flowers of the Forest, 

The Flowers of Edinburgh 

The Foray, 



The Gaberlunzie Man 
The happy Marriage, 
The Hishland Queen, 

Tlie Jolly Beggar, 

The Lainmie, 



The Landart Laird, 

Tlie Lass of Peatie's Mill 

The Lass o' Liviston 

The Last ■. ime I cam* o'er the ftluir, 

The Lea-Rig...^ 




The Life and Age o' Maa,.^^.....^ 

The Maid that tends the Goats, 

The Maltman, — 

The merry Men O, 

The Miller o* Dee, 

The Minstrel (Donochtliead), 

The muckin' o' Geordie's Hyre, 

The Old Man's Song, 

The Poets, what Fools the're to Deave us. 

The Poesie, r,-.^^,^,^^ 

The Rook and rhe wee pickle Tow,^< ,^ 

The Soutois o' Selkirk, 

The Tailor fell thro' the Bed, 

The Turnir.ispike . 

The weary Pund o' Tow, 

The wee, wee German Lairdie, 

The Wee Thing, 

The Wee Wifikie, 

he White Cockade, — , 
The Widow, 
The Velio w-hair'd Laddie, 

he Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie, 

There's nae Luck about the House, 

This is no Mine Ain House, 

Tibbie Fowler, — 

Tibbie Dunbar, 

To Daunton Me,- 

To the Kye wi* Me, (2 se;s), 

Todlin Hame, 

Tranent-Muir, — >» — — 

Tnilochgorum, ,-.~, — -w^-.^ 

' "'"^is within a Mile o' Edinburgh jown, . 
'side (2 sets),-.^ — .>,>,- ,^ ,.. 



., ,, an" Warn a* Willie, 
Up in the Mornin' early. 



Wandering Willie, .^ 
Waiikin' o' the Fauld, 
We're a' Nid Noddin,- 



Vage. 

^ IOC 
113 
177 
184 
175 
\h\ 
12.5 
\^% 
174 
111 
132 
152 
184 
17 
1.59 
187 

180 
171 

181 
181 
181 
183 
115 
142 
172 
142 
1.36 
175 

121 
114 
174 
109 



Were nae my Heart Light 1 wad Die, 
Willie was a Wanton Wagj >,>,^~w.>.>.. 
Woo*d and Married and a\ ^.v..>>>..,>^^ 



138 

126 

. 182 
120 
167 
124 
169 
140 



CONTENTS OF BURNS'S SONGS. 



Ameu, a Heart warm fond Adieu,- 
Ae fond Kiss a? d then we Sever, - 
Afton Water, 
Again rejoicinfj Nature sees, 

A Highland L<)1 my Love was born, 

Amaiig the IV'.'es where humming Bees, - — 
A Man's a M?ii for a' that,- 

Anna, — .— , -.^.>,— .>^— , 

Anni£, ., 

A red re' Rose, 

A R.«!f Hud bv my early Walk,— 

A .Southland /ennie. 

Auld Lang Svne, 

Auld Rob Morris, — 



Bessy and her Spinning- Wl>eel, 
Behold the hour the Boat arrives, . 
BewiTe of Bonnie Ann, 
Beyond thee. Dearie, 
Ely the hae I been on yon Hill, 

Blythe was She, .— -> 

Bonnie Bell,- 

Jean, 

Lesley, 



Wee Thing, 



rimce at Bannockburn,- 

Caledonia — (their Groves o* Sweet Myrtle),- 
Can'st thou leave me thus, Katy, 
Reply, 

Ca' the Ewes,.. ...«, 

Ohloe. 



Page. 

^^ 188 
^ 188 
IH8 
189 
189 
189 
190 
190 
190 
191 
191 
191 
191 
192 

192 
193 
192 
193 
193 
193 
194 
194 
194 
194 
195 

.. 195 
195 
.- 196 
-, 195 
.. 196 



Chlons,— 



Clarinda,. 

Come let me take Thee to my Breast, 

Contented wi' Little, 
Cormtrv Lassie, — — 



Crai gieburn-wood,- 
Dainty Davie, 



Delude^l Swain, 
noes haughty Gaul,-. 
Down the Biirn Davie, 
Duncan Gray, —— . — ^ — 



Evan Banks, 



Fair Eliga,w--— ^...— — 

Fairest Maid on Devon Uanks,. 
Fate gave the Word, 
For the Sake o' Somebody, 
Forlorn my Love, ——>—>-— 
From thee Eliza,. 

Gala.Water,- 
Gloomy December, 
Gieen grow the Rashes 
Giidewife count the Lawin', 



Had I a Cave on sosne Wild distant Shore, 
Handsome Nell, -—.-.-. ~« ~ — ^ 



Her flowing Locks, 

Here's a health to Ane I loe dear, 

to Them that's awa. 



>agt. 
197 

197 

197 
197 
198 
193 

198 
198 
99 
99 
19S' 

199 



2{)C 
'im 

t 1 



203 
202 
•i('3 
204 
204 



CONTENTS. 



Here's s Bottle and an Honest Friend, . 

Highland Harry, .,.,„„>>„ ^^„^^.,< 

Highland Mary, 



How Cruel are the Parents, --.-..^..^ 
4ow lang and dreary is the Night, 

»am a Son of Mars, .,>.>.> 

femie come tr\ me,^. .^ 



Page. 

2114 

203 

203 

204 

204 



20.5 
206 
' Gream'd I lay where Flowers were springing,.*--* 205 

I'll aye ca' in by yon Town, -- ^ .. >,... 2i>5 

Pm o'er Voung to Marry yet. .,— - 205 



kt is nae Jean thy bonnie Fape,— . 
Jockey's ta'en the Parting Kiss, ^ 
John Anderson my jo, -,^-.— .-.-., 
John Barleycorn, ..>,>„„..< -. 



-206 

..•~ 206 

2('7 

206 



Last May a braw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen, 208 

Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks,- 

Lay thy Loof in mine Lass, ^^ — 

Let not a Woman e'er complain, 

Logan Braes, 

Long, long the Night, 

Lord Gregory, -~— , — , 

jord Daer, — -, 



Macpherson's Farewell, ^~ 
Maria's Dwelling, 



Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fashion, . 
Mary Morison, 

Meg o' the Mill, . — 

My Bonnie Mary, -. 

Mv Heart's in the Highlands^ 

My Lady's Gown there's Gairs upoii't, 

My Nannie's awa, -—>.. .-, 

My Nannie O. 



My Peggy's Face my Peggy's Form, 
My Spouse Nancy, 



My Wife's a winsome Wee Thing, 
Musing on the Roaring Ocean,- 



Naebody, 
Nancy, . 



208 
208 
209 
209 
209 
209 

no 

210 
210 

211 
211 
212 
212 

21-i 

— 212 

213 

2 3 

213 

214 

211 



Now Banks and Braes are clad in Green, 
Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green, 



-^ 214 
-^ 214 

— 215 



^ 214 
Now westlin Winds and slaughtering Guns, 215 



O* a' the airts the Wind can blaw,- 

O ay my Wife she dang me, 

O bonnie is yon Rosy Brier,. 

O for Ane and Twentie Tarn, -~— — . 

O gin my Love were yon Red Rose, - 

O leave Novelles ye Mauchlin Belles, 

O let me in this ae Night,—————, 

O Love will venture in, -.. 

O May, thy Morn,- 

On a Bank of Flowers, —————. 
©n Cessnock Bank, , — . 



On the Seas and far away,- 
Open the Door to me O,. 
O Philly happy be that day, 
O stay sweet warbling Woodlark, . 
O wat ye Wha's in yon Town, — - 

O were I on Parnassus Hill, 

O wert Thou in the Cauld Blast,- 
O wha is She that Loes me,.— 
Out over the Forth, — — — -— 



215 
216 
216 
216 
217 
^- 217 

— 217 
218 

— 218 

— 219 

— 218 
219 
219 
220 
220 
220 
221 
216 
216 
216 



Peggy Alison,-.-. —— . — ^... 

Phillis the Fair, — — 

Powers Celestial whose protection, 
Puirtith Cauld,> ,.^.^^.»^«.. 



ftantin' Roarin' Willie,. 



— 222 

— 222 

— 222 

^973 




Raving Winds around her blowing 

Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, 

Scroggum, 



She's Fair and She's Fause, 
She says she Loes me best of a'. 
Sic a Wife as Wilhe had. 

Steer her up and baud her gaun, 

Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigieburn-wood, 



The Auld Man, 

The Banks o' Castle Gordon, . 
o* Cree, — 
o* Devon,-, 
o* Doon, 
o* Nith, — 

The Bard's Song, 



The Battle o' Sherra-Muir, 
The Big-bellied Bottle,. 
The Birks o' Aberfeldie,- 
The Blue-eyed Lassie, 
The bonnie Wee Thing,— -.».- 

The Braes o' Ballochmj-le, . 

The Carle o' Kellvburn-Braes, 

The Chevalier's Lament, 

The Dav Returns, — — ... 

The Death Song, 

The Deil's awa wi* the Exciseman, 

The Election, 



225 
225 
225 

22- 
'225 
238 
226 
226 
227 
227 
228 
22^ 
228 
228 
229 
229 
230 
2.^0 
230 
231 
231 
232 
232 
232 
233 
233 
233 
23 i 
234 
2.54 
235 
235 
235 
237 
236 
238 
237 
„ „ 237 

There'll never be Peace till Jamie ccnnes hame,— 236 

There's a Youth in this City, >— — «. 237 

There's News Lasses, — — — ,— , 237 

2.38 

2.>8 

239 

240 



The Gallant Weaver, 

The Gardener, 

The Gloomy Night is gatherin' fast. 

The Heather was bloomin', — — .— , 

The Highland Lassie O, 

The Lad that's far awa. 

The Lass o* Baliochmyle, 



The Lass that made the Bed to me,. 

The Lazy Mist, — — >> 

The Lea-Rig, 

The Lovely Lass o' Inverness, ^ 

The Lover's Salutation, 

The R iggs o' Harley, 

The Soldier's Return 

The stown Glance o' Kindness,. 

The Toast, . 



The Tocher for Me, 

The Woodlark, 

The Young Highland Rover, 



There was once a Day, — —— 
This is no mine ain Lassie, — . 
Thou has left me ever Jamie, 
Tibbie I haeseen the Day, — 

To Mary in Heaven, 

True-hearted was He, — — .. 



Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, . 
Wandering Willie,. 



240 
24C 
What can a Young La.^sie do wi' an Auld Man, — 240 
Wha is that at my Bower Door, . — .................. 241 

When Guildford Good, ——,—>—., 241 

Where are the Joys 1 hae met in the Morning, -, 242 
Whistle and I'll come to ye my Lad, ————— 242 
W'llie brew'd a Peck o Maut, —————— —^ 242 

Will Ye go to the indies mv Mary, — — 243 

Wilt thou be my Dearie, — — . — . — . , 212 



Yon Wild Mossy Mountains,. 
Young Jockey was the blythest Lad, 
Youn? Pe^v. .» « .. » »».>»».< - .* 



243 
243 
841 



CONTENTS OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



1783, 1784, 



Page. 



Urvt Letten, at 90, in good English, but unavail- 
Jng, 247-9 

To Mr. Murdoch— state of the Poet and his Opi- 
nions, > » ., ^><.>.,.^~^,,.».^>.^.,,>.,. , „ .>.<„, 249 

btracU from the Scrap-book, ^^^«^>.^,>^^^ 250-2 



1786. 

To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh — ^first pub- 
lishing, .>>.^>,,^., ,,,^.,.>,>.^ 252 

To' Mr. Macwhinnie, Ayr— same topic, <^ . 252 



To Mr. James Smith 
maica, „^^^ 

To Mr. David Brice 



Mauchline — route for Ja- 



253 



same — about to become 
Poet in print — the last foolish action he is to 
commit >«>.~>...,^,,^,>>. >,».,. — , ,^,,,^^ 253 



To Mr. Aitken, 
ture state, . 



Ayr- 



• Authorship — Excise — a fu- 

^ 253 



To Mrs Dimlop — first Letter — ^her order for Co- 
pies — his early devotion to her ancestor. Sir W. 

To Mrs. Stewart of Suir — introductory — hurry — 
going ab' oad sends Songs, ^—^ 255 

From Dr Blacklock to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie— 
with just estimate of the Poet's merits — which 

Kuts an end to the West India scheme, and brings 
im to Edinburgh, ~^^^^>, . >,>,>,>^ 255 

Prom Sir John Whitefoord — complimentary ,^.~».- 256 
From the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview 

with Dr. Blacklock — good advice,^>, ^^-^ 256 

To Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline— from Edinburgh 

— the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kempis or 

John Bun van— favours of the Edinburgh public, 256 
To Dr. Mackenzie, MauchUn^ — with the Lmes on 

Lord Daer, — ^ — ^.^ >. ^^„^„^ 257 



1787. 

To Mr. John Ballantine, Ayr — occurrences at 
Edinburgh, . ^ 257 

To Mr. William Chalmers, Ayr — the same, and 
hiunourously apologetical, ^>.,...^.,.^.>.>... » .»^. 257 

To Mr. John Ballantine — Farming projects and 
farther incidents at Edinburgh, ^^^ >~» 258 

To the Earl of Eglinton— a thankful Letter, «^.-., 258 

To Mrs. Dunlop— treats of Dr. Moore and his 
Writings — critical remarks on his own — and 
upon himself at the height of popular favour,-^ 259 

To Dr. Moore — introductory — the Poet's views of 

l^rom Dr. Moore — thinks the Poet no/ of. the ir- 
rUabile genus — admires his love of Country and 
independent spirit, not less than his Poetical 
Beauties— sends Miss Williams Sonnet on the 
Mountain Daisy, >.«.^« .....«,,..» — ^^ 260 

To Dr. Moore — general character of Miss Williams' 
Poems .>. ...>.....,. — >. ^ 260 

To Mr. John Ballantine — printing at Edinburgh, 
and getting hlsphlz done ..«.. 261 

From Dr. Moore — with his View of Society — and 
other Works, 261 

To the Elarl of Glencairn— with Lmes for his Pic- 
ture, ^ ^^^ 261 

To the Farl of Budian — as to Pilgrimages in Cale* 
donia. * ^ 262 



Peu., 

Proceedings as to the Tombstone of Feroass'm, ^G%-i 

To Mr. James Candlish, Glasgow— the Poet clings 
to Revealed Religion, leavmg Spinosa — ^but still 
the Old Man with his deeds, »>,» ~... 26f 

To the same— first notice of Johnson's Musical 
Museum, — .^> — . ^-. Sfr 

To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh — the Bard— his 
situation and views, , — ,»>> — >.»- 264 

To the same, ^ .-*~ 263 

To Dr. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first 
Pilgrimage, ._--.<-J Z, ~ 265 

To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary criti- 
cisms,-.. ,,^~.-.~.^-.-., — ■ — > ^ 265 

To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair— leave taking, 265 

From Dr. Blair — who notices hi?^own claims for 
first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world — 
gives the Poet, at parting, ^certificate of cha- 
racter, with much good advice, both wordiy and 
poetical , »^>, — . — .»>> ^^^^^^^ — >>,» >. »» 266 

To Mr. William Creech — with the Elegy during 
the first Pilgrimage, ^ , ^ ^ ^ 264 

From Dr. Moore — sparing use hereafter of the 
Provincial Dialect recommended — more valua- 
ble hints also given, ^ ^^^.^...^....^^^.^-.-......-.^^ 267 

To Mr. William Nicoll — the Foe's Itinerary in 
irafrf Scots, ...^ :^ 267 

From Mr. John Hutclieson, Jamaica — Poems 
excellent — but better in the English style — Scot- 
tish now becoming obsolete — dissuades from the 
West Indies — " there is no encouragement for a 
man of learning and genius there," -...^ ^~ 268 

To Mr. W. Nicoll— on arriving' at home — morali- 
zes over the Scenes and Companions of his re- 
cent elevation— gloomily as to the tuture,..,— —. 268 

To Gavin Hamilton — ocourrences cf the seccmd 
Pilgrimage, ^~.^-^-.„ ^ ^^.......^^.^^ e68 

To Mr. Walker, Blair-in- \thole — the same — the 
Duke's family, — 270 

To Mr. Gilbert Hums— fmthr adventures, 2"'0 

From Mr.Ramsay of Oi'litettyro— with Inscriptions 
— Tale of Owen Cameron— hints for a Poetical 
Composition on the grand scale mid other taste- 
ful and interesting matter.,^ „..^ 271-f 

From Mr. Walker, ,\ thole- House — particulars of 
the Poet's visit there — female lontrivanoes to 
prolong his say,-.— 1 , 273 

Ftom Mr A. M. an admiring Friend returned 
from abroad — with tributary Ver.ses, >^-.-,.-* 273 

From Mr. Ramsay to the Re . Willia.n Voung — 
introductory of the Poet, ,~-,^~-.»-.-.~-.~.~,..-,-, 274 

From the same to Dr, (lack lock— with thanks for 
the Poet's acquaintance and Songs— Anecdotes, 274 

From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Letter from an old 
Tutor, rejoicing in the fruits of the genius he 
had helped to culti\ate, ,-.,-.,-» 275 

From Mr. R. , from Gordon. Castle — incidents 

of the Poet's visit there, ...... ^, 275 

From the Rev. John Skinner — prefers the Natural 
to the Classical Poet — his own Poesy — contri- 
butes to the Song-making enterprize, -..-.s^-.^..*,-* 278 

From Mrs. Ross of Kilraivach— Gaelic airs — the 
Poet's Northern Tour, ,-.,. >„->>>.,.., 277 

To Mr. Dalrympleof Orangefield— Rhvmes, 278 

Fragment— Letters to Miss Chalmers, ^^.-.^....^ 278-81 

To Miss M an Essay on the complimentary 

To Mr* Robert Ainslie— friendship, -.->^ >->^, 281 

To Mr. John Ballantine — with Song, Ve Ban&s 
and Braes o* Bonnie oon, — ^ — .,...«....,. ....^^ 281 



CONTENTS. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

Page. 

To Pr. Moore, from the Poet — Sketch of his 
Life, ^ ,,.^ ~ 281-6 

From Mr. Gilbert Bums, a running Commentary 
on the forcj^oing, <.■,.- >>> >,.>.>.»286-90 

from Mr. Murdoch, as to the Poet's early Tui- 
tion, „^^^^ 990-2 

From Pvofessor Dugald Stewart— his Sketches of 
the Poet, : 292-.5 

From Mr. Gilbert Burns, giving history of origin 
of the principal Poems, ~ ~ 295-7 

From ll»e same, in continuation — and Essay on 
Education of lower Classes, .. .,^<, — 1'97-302 

Teath and Character of Gilbert Burns, — ,...>,.^>. 3()2 

The ^oet's Scrap- Uook. (farther extracts),~->-~J02-^ 



LETTERS, 1788. 

fo Mrs..DunIop, from Edinburgh—second visit — 
bruised limb,.~.-..-~, ,,.„^^ . — . 304 

To the same— repelling insinuation as to irroli- 

To a Lady — upon the u«e of sarcasm imputed to 
him against her,-. ,,^^ — ,. — ,, 5 4 

To Mr. Robert Cleghorn— origin of the Cheva. 
lier's Lament, ^ 304 

From the same, iti answer — and with Farming 
opinions, ,,^^ r..^^^ ^ ~ — ~ 304 

To Mr. James Smith, Avonfield — marriage pre. 

To Mrs. Dunli 1) — Farming — reasons for and in- 
structions in the Excise — tart expressions, ,-,«-„ 305 

From the Rev. John Skinner, with " Charming 
Nancy," by a Buchan Ploughman, and other 
Songs — his own Latii) poetry, ^.,^^,, >>.>.»~ 306 

To Professor Dugald Stewart— wishes at his going 
to the Continent, ,.„^^^^^^ 306 

To Mrs. Dunlop — Dryden's Virgil — likes the 
Georgics — disappointed in the Mne\d, often an 
imitation of Homer — Dryden, Pope's master, 
in genius and harmony of language, ,.^.,.,.>,>.~ 307 

T't Mr. Robert Ainslie— a dull Letter may be a 
Aind one, ,... .»>..,.> ,,,,,.^^ 307 

To Mrs. Dunlop — inequality of conditions, 307 

To the same— first fiom Ellisland — his marriage, 308 

To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-milk Cheese— t 
slice of it good for indigestion of all kmds, 308 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie— friendship— the Poet'i 



suspicious temperament — his purpose to leave 
the light troops of Fancy for the squadrons of 
heavy armed Thought— Marriage, ~-- MI9 

To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Mauchline— the Poet's 
new house, - .~,,,^^^.,^^,^^, „^^ .^^ I )9 

To Mr. Rofjert Ainslie — a .-er ous Letter. LjO 

To Mr. George Lockhar'. Gla^gnw — admiration 
ot ceriain Female beauties, ^„,^ 'II 

To Mrs. Dunlop — a luck-pcinu .— Friar's Carse 
Hermitage and other Lines, ^-, ^, 311 

To the same — his answers to her, n< t Kehues — 



Marriage Anecdotes— account of his Wife- 
ter writing. 



-Let- 
312 



To the same — gossip of a Dinner-party Life and 
Age of Man— religious Impressions, ^,^^.„^^ 312 

To Robert Graham, Esq. with first Poetical Ad- 
dress. — , ^ ^.^ ^■...... 313 

To Mr. Bewgo, Engraver— estimate of the Poet's 
new neighbours — matters poeticai ^^^^ 314 

To Miss Chalmers— complimen'dry to her — and 
explanatory of his marriage- present state and 
prospects — Songs,.^—^^-^ ,,r,,jr.j. . j, ,, s.jj, , ,, 315 

To Mrs. Dunlujj — twins— ct' /fcisms — verses, „.,.^ 316 

To Mr. Peter Hill— opinions of the Poetry of 
Thomson, r,r. r - r ,..........-,..,^...,^,.,., 317 

1 o Mrs. Dunloj>— the Major's present, ,w,~< ^^ 317 

To — a|K)logetieaI for the bloody and tyrannical 
House of srpwarf, , rr ,., J .■■"■J.,..-..... 318 

To Mr James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgh — 
with Songs and good advice for his Musical Mu- 
seum, « .. . ,.,. ....... 319 

To Dr. Blackiock — with Poetical Pieces and Songs 
—his Marriage and other movements, ......... 319 

To Mrs. Dunlop— consolatory — the Poet's esti- 
mate of worldly concerns, as against the func- 
tions of the immortal soul— Auld Lang Syne— 
and other Song's, j . ,..j, ,. ,..... 320 

fr a youue Lady, enclosing a Ballad upon her,... 32U 



789 



To Sir John WhitefoQ w-thanks for his roluntary 

defence of the Poet, r .j, -,,,,, ,. .,.,.:... 3f 

From Mr. Gilbert Bum -New. Year's wishes,..-. 3*1 
To Mrs. Dunlop — thesa e — ^approves of set times 
of Devotion— glowing tntiments of a Life be- 

yond the Graxre, .-.»«.... .... ...... , . ., SJl 

From the Rev. P. Cai\ e— of Mylne and his 

Works, : 325 

To Dr. Mdore — poetical purposes — worldly slate 

of the Poet and his Friends, . >.~.,...,.. 32J 

o Mr. Robert Ainslie— advice and encourage- 
To iBishop Geddes— •' What am 1 ?— Where I am ? 

— and for what am I destined ?" , .... 32 ' 

To Mrs. Dunlop — contrast of high and low — 

Mylne's Poems, ............. ........... . ...... 32 

From William Burns, the Poet's Brother — his out- 
set and progress,...- w.....~-^~~. ~ .......... ..~ 325 

To the Rev. P. Carfrae— Mylne's Poems, 326 

:0 Dr. Moore— the Bard's sufferings from the 

Death and Funeral of a sordid Female, — 328 

To Mr. Peter Hill— eulogy of frugality — order for 

Books, ..... — ,J — 327 

To Mrs. Dunlop— Sketch of Fox, . 328 

To Mr. Cunningham — effusions of Friendship, ., 328 

From Dr. Gregory— iron bound criticism .... 328 

To Mr. James Hamilton, Glaseow — consolation, 329 

To Mr. William Creech— Toothache, .. 329 

To Mr. M'Auley of Dumbarton descriptive of 

the Poet's feelings and condition, ^^ .. 330 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie— the same topics, ............ 5 (J 

From Dr. Moore — advice — to preserve and polish 
his lays, and to abandon the .Scottish stanza and 

dialect — Zeluco,.. — ..... .. 331 

To Mrs. Dunlop — low spirits — religious feelings,., .131 
From Miss J. Little — with a poetical tribute,^.... 35'i 
From Mr. ( unningham — reminiscences of Fergus- 
son,... ........... ............. . ^ 335 

To Mr. Cunningham, in answer, ....... ....... 353 

To Mr. Dunlop— domestic matters — Poetical Tri- 
bute from Miss L a Future State— Zeluco, 334 

From Dr. Blackiock— a friendly Letter in Rhyme, .IS* 

To Dr. Blackiock — a suitable answer, ~.- .33^ 

To Captain Riddel— the night of the Whistle, — 335 

To the same — the Scrap-book, .~. ■ — .... 335 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie — the word '• Exciseman," 335 
To Robert Graham, Esq.— Captain Grose and lo- 

cal polemic's, ~. — .......... — w.... 336 

i oMrs. Dunlop — " under the miseries of a diseas- 
ed nervous system," ......~... 337 

To Sir John Sinclair— the Library of Dunscore,.. 338 
From Captain Riddel to Sir John— on same sub- 
ject. ^ . 338 



1790. 



To Gilbert Rums— the Players— Verses for them, 339 
From William Burns — at Newcastle— wants inlor- 

mation and fraternal instructions, — 359 

To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet Falconer— Ballads, .. 34C 
From Mr. Cunningham — friendly notices, ^.....^s 341 
From Mr. Peter Hill — " a poor rascally Gauger,' 
— Borouj^h Reform— Books— Note, with secrets 
worth knowing,... . 341 



To Mr. William Nicoll — last illness and death of 
Peg Nicolsou — matters theatrical — ecclesiastical 
squabbling — Exciseman's duty 



34J 



To Mr. Cutmingham— on Letter writing — exist- 
ence—and the course of the Poet's readirig — 

Deism — Scepticism, — ............. — ... 345 

To Mr. Peter Hill— a large order — existence,..^.. 343 
From William Bums, at London— his adv entures 
shears the Calf preach a,t Covent Garden C'ha- 

To Mrs. Dunlop— advantages of the Union — Lord 
Chesterfield — Mirror — Lounger- Man of Feel- 
ing, ...~~.....~....~~..~.~-~....~~*~-~~~~~>~~ 345 

From Mr. Cunningham — friendly notices,.,. . 3j5 

To Or MoAi e — Letter writing — Zeluco — Miss 

Williams, 34t 

To Mr. Murdoch — ren wing friendly mtercourse, .^46 
From Mr Murdoch— Death of William Burns, .. 34" 
To Mr. Cunningham — Independence— Smollett's 
Ode. 541 



CONTENTS. 



xiii 



from Dr. Blacklock— a Letter in Rhyme— Dr. 
Anderson and the Bee, <.........^>, ...>.. .. ..> 348 

From Mr. Cunninsham— « Song for each of the 
four Seasons suggested, ..>.> ~ >.. 349 

To Mrs. Dimlop— Birtli of a Posthumous Child- 
Ode thereon. ■ 349 

To Crawford Tait, Esq.— recommending a young 
Friend. . 349 

Xo — — '— — Partiianship, 350 



1791. 

To Mr. Connmghum- Elegy on Miss Burnet, «~. 350 
To Mr. Peter Hill -Essay on Poverty, ..,.^....^.>.>> 351 
From A. F. Tytler, Esq.— Tam o' Shanter,-,~->~^ 3a 1 

To Mr. Tytler— in answer, 352 

To Mrs. Duolop— broken arm — Elegy on Miss 

Burnet — a remembrance , 352 

To LAdy \fary Constable— a Snuff-box, . 353 

To Mrs. Graham of Fintry— Ballad on Queen 

Mary— the Poef s gratitude, — ^ ^^ 353 

From the Rev. Principal Baird— Michael Bruce,*. 353 
Tu Principal Baird— offering every aid for pub- 

isning Bruce's Works, 354 

To the Rev. Archibald Allisot:— his Essays on 

Taste, -. 354 



To Dr. Moore— Songs and Ballaas 
vate concerns. 



-Zeleuco— pri. 



355 



To Mr. Cunningham— Song, '• There'll never be 
peace till Jamie come hnme," ..>.........>.>..>>*>«. 356 

To Mr. Dalzell, F-*ctor to Lord Glencaim — the 
Poet's grief for his Lordship— his wish to attend 
the Funeral ,.. » ...... — ^ 356 

From Dr. Mt>ore— criticises Tam o' Shanter, and 
other pieces — solicits the Poet's remarks on Ze- 
leuco— advises him to be more chary of giving 
Copies— and to use the modem English, >....... 356 

To Mrs- Dunlop-~a domestic occurrence — exclu- 
sive advantages of humble life, ^.^ — .^ 357 

To Mr. Cunningham— in behalf of a persecuted 
Schoolmaster, ^^ ^ ^ — 358 

From the Earl of Buchan— crowning of Thomson's 
Bust at Ednan, <>..■........■■.>.. 358 

I o the same — in answer,.,.. .» — 359 

To Mr. Thomb« Slcan, Manchester — disappoint- 
ment — perseverance recommended — The Poet'i 
Roup, ,......—,.. — .... 359 

From the Earl if Buchan — suggests Harvest-home 
for a theme to the Muse, 359 

To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the 



death of her Brother, Lord Glencaim, 



To Mr. Robert AinsHe— a Mind diseased, .... 360 

From Sir Ji^'in Whitefoord— Lament for Lord 
Glencaim, ,....— ..... ~ 360 



Prom A. F. Tytler, Esq. 
ment, 



Whistle— the La- 



361 
To Miss Davie»— .sentimental — with some hints as 
to a Radical Reform, ^ 36!2 



To Mrs Dunlo|) — with the Death-Song - 
land Air, ..... 



■High. 



To Captain Grose — lauds Professor Dugald Stew. 

art. . 363 

To the same— Witch Stories of Kirk-Alloway, -.^ 363 
To Mrs. Punlofi — animadversions of the Board — 

malicious insinuations— a cup of kindness,.....—. 364 
To Mr. W. Smellie^introductory of Mrs. Ri<ldel, 364 
To Mr. W. Nicoll— admiration of, and gratitude . 

for sage advice, — ...........~....~.. .......... ........ 365 

To Mr. CunniJigham — the Poet's Arms, .—......... 365 

J o Mr. Clarke invitation to come to the Country, 366 
To Mrs. Dunlop— a Platonic attachment and a 

Ballad — Religion indispensible to make Man 

better and happier, . — ..................... . .......^ 367 

To Mr. Cunningham — nocturnal ravings, — ...», . . 367 
To Mrs. unlop— difference in Farmirtg for one^g 

«elf and Farming for another, >.............>. 368 

To the same — a Family infliction — condolence, .. 369 
To the same— shortness and uncertainty of Life — 

Rights of Woman. 369 

To Robert Graham, Esq.— justifies himself against 

the charge of disaffection to the British Consti. 

tution, ., >.. .......... 370 

To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet's improved habitS'-^l- | 



ragm 

lusions to her suggestions for his ofllcial pre mo- 
tion, ~— » . ..— 371 

To Miss B. of York — moralizes over the chance, 
medleys of human intercourse, .....—.............». 371 

To Patrick MiUer, Esq of Dalswinton — an honest 
tribute, 371 

To John Francis Erskine of Mar, Esq. — tha Poefs 
Independence of sentiment, and particularly his 
opinions as to Reform eloquently justified, ^ S'Jf-^ 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie — Spunkie — schoolcraft 
caught by contact, ......> 373-4 

To Miss K delicate flattery to a Beauty, — 374 

To Lady Glencaim -gratitude to her Family— 
from an independent Exciseman, ~....~.....«. 374.4 

To Miss Chalmers— a curious analysis which chews 
" a Wight nearlv as miserable as a Poet/ ..-.~ 375 

To John M'Murdo, Esq.— out of debt, .......... 37&-fi 



LETTERS, 1794, 1795, 1796. 

To the Earl of Buchan— with " Bruce's Address," 37« 

To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Theatricals 378 

To a Lady<.-the same, ~ .. 378 

To Mr the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo- 
tion and literary leisure, .... . ..... 37ft-7 

To Mrs. Riddel — Theatricals and lobster-coated 

To the same — ^gin horse routine of Excise business, 377 

To the same — effects ol a cool reception, .. 377 

To the same — a spice of caprice, .. ..~.. 378 

To the same — firm yet conciliating, 378 

To John Syme, Esq. — upraises of Mr. A. — Song on 

Mrs. Oswald, — ^ — .. ........ 378 

To Miiis in defence of his reputation — ^re- 



claims his MS 



.^37f 



To Mr Cunningljam — a Mind Diseased— Religion 
necessary to Man ...... ....—..... — . ..... 379 

To a Lady— from the Shades, .~.-. 38C 

To the E]arl of Glencaim — the Poet's gratitude to 
his late Brother, . . ..... ............ 381 

To Dr. Anderson — his Work, the Lives of the 
Poets, 380 

To Mrs. Riddel — solitary confinement good to re- 
claim Sinners — Ode for Birth-day of Washing. 

To Mr. James Johnson — Songs and projects for 
the Museum, —...-.. 381 

To Mr. Miller of Dalswinton — declines to be a re- 
gular contributor to the Poet's Comer of the 
Mornini; Chronicle, .... ..., ..... 381 

To Mr. Gavin Hamilton — the Poet recommends a 
particular regimen to him, . ... 581 

To Mr. Samuel Clarke — penitence after excess, -. 383 

To Mr. Alexander Findlater— Supervisor — •« So 
much for schemes,".. — ...............>.. ....■~....~...... ."83 

To the Editors of the Morning Chronicle — its in- 
dependence, .....— w......... . .......... 3h3 

To Mr. W. Dunbar— New- Year wishes,.. .... 383 

To Miss Fontenelle— with a Prologue for her be- 
nefit, 383 

i o Mrs. Duulop— cares of the Married Life — Dum- 
fries Theatricals — Cowper's Task— the Poet's 
Scrap-book, . 384-,5 

To Mr. Heron of Heron— Political Ballads- 
Dreams of Excise promotion, 383 

To the Right Hon. W. Pitt— in behalf of the 
Scots Distillers, .>..—»... . — ...—...... .. 38e 

To the Magistrates of Dumfries— 'Free School E- 
ducation, ...w»~......~ . ^. 387 

To Mrs. Dunlop in London — Mr. Thomson's 
Work — acting Supervisor— New Year wishes — 
Dr. Vloore, 3S7-8 

To Mrs. Riddel— Anacharsis— the Muses still pre- 
sent, 388 

To Mrs. Dunlop— in affli<-Hr>n, r, ^ - ■ • ^ 588 

To Mrs. Riddel— on Birth-dav lo>aUy, 388 

To Mr. James Johnson— the Sluseum — a consum- 
ing illness hangs over the Poet, . .. 389 

To Mr. Cunningham— from the Brow, Sea-bath- 
ing Quarters— sad picture. 



To Mrs. Hums — fr<)m the Brow 

but total decay of appetite,. 
To Mis Dunlop— a last farewell. 



strengthened- 



CONTENTS OF THE POETS CORRESPONDENC E 
WITH MR. GEORGE THOMSON 



Fage 

from Mr. Tnomson— soliciting the Poet's aid to 
the Select Melodies, ..~> . ^ 391 

The Poefs answer — frankly embarking in the 
Work. ^ ,^ 391-2 

From Mr. Thomson — views of conjiucting the 
Work— and with 11 Songs for New Verses, 392 

From the Poet— with the "Lea Rig"—" My Nan- 
nie O" — " Will ve go to the Indies my Mary," 393 

From the Poet— with " My Wife's a wanton wee 
thing" — •• O saw ye bonnie Lesley," 393 

From the Poet— with •• Ye Banks and Braes iind 
Streams around the Castle o' Montgomery,"...^ 394 

From Mr. Thomson — criticisms and corrections,^ 594 

From the Poet — admits some corrections, " but 
cannot alter b nnie Lesley" — additional Verse 
for the " Lea Rig." ^ 395 



From the Poet— with 

" Duncan Gray," 

From the Poet— with 

Galla Water, 



Auld Rob Morris" and 

'' PoortTth" Can Id" "and 

-, 395 



From Mr. Thomson— laudatory for favours re- 
ceived—details the plan of his Work— P. S. from 
the Honourable A. Erskine— a brother Poet 
and fr>nfrihiiff>r,^, , , ,,,^, , 396 

From the Poet— approves of the details— offers 
matter anecdotic — the Song " Lord Gregory"— 
English and Scots seis of it, — .,.,. 396-7 

From the Poet — with " Wandering Willie," ,,— -, 397 

From the Poet — '• Open the Door to me O,"- » 397 

From the Poet—" True-hearted was he," ^>~ 397 

From Mr homson — with complete list of Songs, 
and farther details of the Work, .597-8 

From the Poet — with " The Soldier's return"— 
" Meg o* the Mill." .598 

From the Poet — S.ng making his hobby— offers 
valuable hints for enriching and improving the 
Work, 398-9 

From Mr. Thomson— in answer, ^....^ 399 

From the Poet farther hints and critical remarks 
— sends Song on a celebrated Toast to suit 
Tune, " Bonnie Dundee," ,.>,..^.,.^.. .,,.,., 399 

From the Poet — with " Ihe last time I came o'er 
the moor," ^..,.> .^.^ , .. 400 

From Mr. rhomson— excuses his taste as against 
the Poet's, 400 

From the Poet— dogmatically set against altermg, 400 

ihe Poet to Mr. Thomson — Fraser the Hautboy 
Player— Tune and Song, •• The Quaker's Wife" 
— "Blvthe hae I been on yon Hill," ^. ,^,^ 40 -1 

The same — mad ambition — "Logan Braes"— Frag- 
ment from Witherspoon's Collection — •• O gin 
my lo\e were yon Red Rose .".„„.,.>.,.,.,.. . 401 

Mr Thomson — m answer — a change of Partners in 
the Work, 401 

The Poet to Mr Thomson — Tune and Air of 
" Bonnie Jean" — the Poet's Heroines,-— -,-,*~-. 402 

The same — a remittance acknowledge^ — " Flow- 
ers of the Forest"— the A uthoress— Pinkerton's 
Ancient Ballads — prophecies,,,- ^ 402 

Mr. Thomson to the Poet — Airs waiting the Mu- 
se's leisure, ^^ . — — 403 

The Poet to Mr. Thomson— Tune, ' Robin A- 
dair"— " Phillis the Fair" to it—" Cauld Kail 
in Aberdeen," „-.-.-.-.-.- ,- . - 403 

From Mr. Thomson — grateful for the Poet's " va- 
lued Epistles" — wants Verses for " Down the 
bum Davie" — mentions Drawings for the Work, 403 

From the Poet — Tune " Robin Adair" again — 
sends " Had I a Cave" to it— Gaelic origin of the 
Tune ,„ 104 



From the Poet— with New Song to 
ter,*' 



Allan Wap 
404 



From the same — with Song " WhistJe and I'll 
come to vou, my Lad," and " Phillis the Fair," 
to the " ^uckin' o' Geordie's byre,"*——-.—— 401 

From the same—" Cauld Kail" — a Gloamin' Shot 
at the Muses, 404 

From the same — " Dainty Davie"— four Imes of 
Song and four of Chorus, -, — — -. —» .«., — , — 405 

From Mr. ITiomson— profuse acknowledgments 
for many favours, >—— — -.-.>. — ,-. 404 

From the Poet— Peter Pindar — '• Scots wha hae 
wi Wallace bled" — " So may God defend the 
cause of truth atid liberty as he did that day,"-. 40i 

From the same— with Song " Behold the hour the 
Boat arrives," to the Highland Air " Oran gaoil," 40i 

From Mr. Thomson — " Bruce's Address" — the Air 
" Lewis Gordon" better for it than " Hey tuttie 
tatie" — verbal criticisms, - — ->, 401 

From the Poet — additional Verses to " Dainty 
Davie" — " Through the wood, Laddie" — " Cow- 
den-knowes" — " Laddie lie near me" — the Poet's 
form of Song making—" Gill Morrice" — " High- 
land Laddie"—" Auld Sir Simeon" — " Fee him 
Father" — " There's nae luck about the House" 
—the finest of Love Ballads, " Saw ye my Fa- 
ther" — " lodlin hame" — sends " Auld Lang 
Syne" — ^farther notices of other Songs *nd Bal. 
lads. 407-« 

From the Poet— rejects the verbal criticism on the 
Ode, " Bruce»s Address."- — —.- — ,- -,- 40t 

From Mr. Thomson— Strictures on che Poet's no- 
tices of the above Songa—again nibbling at the 
(Jde, 4i)9 

From the Poet—" The Ode pleases me so much I 
cannot alter it" — sends Song " Where are the 
Joys 1 hae met in the mornin'," — -. — >- — — - 409 

From the Poet— sends " Deluded Swain" and 
" Raving Winds around her blowing"— Airs 
and Songs, to adopt or reject — differences of 
taste, ..— ,> — — 409 

From the same — " Thine am I my Faithiul Fair" 
— to the " Quaker's Wife," which is just the 
Gaelic Air " Liggerain cosh," ——,——. 410 

Fri m Mr. Thomson — in answer. X— — — — — 410 

From the Poet — Song to " My Jo Ja et,"-... — 410 

From Mr. Thomson — proposed conference — Re- 
marks on Drawings and Songs, — „ , 410 

From the Poet— same subjects — Pkyel— i» detenu 
— whereby hinderance ot the Work — Song " ITie 
Banks of tree," -. 411 

From the same— "The auspicious period preg- 
nant with the happiness ot Millions" — Inscrip- 
tion on a Copy of the Work presented to Miss 
Graham of Fintry, ...-...-.-.-. 4U 

From Mr. Thomson in answer,— ,-,—-—— 411 



From the Poet — with Song 
awav," ————.- . 



On the Seas and far 

412 



From Mr. Thomson— criticises that Song severely, 412 

From the Poet — withdrawing it — " making a Song 
is like begetting a Son" — sends " Ca' the yewes 
to the knowes, *-.-...>..., - „ — 411 

From the same — Irish Air— sends Song to it " Sa^ 
flaxen were her ringlets"— Poet's taste in Music 
like Frederic of Prussia's — has begun " O let me 
in this ae night" — Epigram, - - - - 4U 

From Mr. Thomson — profuse of acknowledg- 
ments, —,———— ————— , 413 



From the same — Peter Pindar's task completed- 
Ritson's Collection— dressing up of Old Songs, 



IIJ 



CONTENrs. 



Page. 

•wm rh* \ oet— " Cralgie-burn Wood" and the 
heioints- rt»»cipe for Song making — Song " Saw 
/e my Phely" — " The Posie" — " Donochthead" 
not the Poet's — '« Whistle o'er the lave o't" his 
— so is " Blvthe was she" — sends Song " How 
l&ng and dreary is the night"—" Let hot Wo- 
man e'er complain" — ^' Sleep'st thOu"— East 
Indian Air— Sn»g " The Aiild Man," .^„^ 414 

From Mr. Thomson — in aclcnowiedgment, and 
with far! her commissions, ^,^,,>>.>»,...^>^^<.>.>. 415 

From the Poet- thanks for Kitson — Songof Chlo- 
ris — Love, Conjugal and Platonio— " Chloe" — 
" Lassie wi* the lint-white locks"—" Maria't 
dwelling" — " Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon" 
— Recipe to make a Scots Tune— humble ^6- 
quest for a Copy of the Work to give to a fe- 
male friend, ,>.,>,>.^w>.w»^^>^~«.».>>^~^~~» 41&-17 

From Mr. Thomson —in answer— criticism*— sends 
three Copies, and as welcome to 20 as to a pinch 

From the Poet — Duet completed — sends Songs 
" O Philly happy be that day"—" Contented 
wi' little" " Canst thou leave me thus my 
Katy"— Remarks on Songs and the Stock and 

From Mr. Thomson— modest acknowledgments — 
Pictures for the Work, .^^ — ^>,>^ >,^»>>^ 419 

From the Poet— with Song " Nannie's awa"—Pic- 
tures,.»^-^.,vw,.^-. ,.^,-^ •,-,..,.^~* 419 

From the same — originality a coy feature in 
composition — sends " A man's a man for a' 
that*— which shows that Song making is not 
confined to love and wine^iiew set of " Crai- 
gie-burn Wood," ,^^^ — w>.,>^,.v.,^v»v.»».»^ » — ,. 419 

From Mr. Thomson— in aekiiowledgment, » , »„ > 418 

From the Pnet— with, "o letmei.i thisae Night," 
and Answer, ,— ^-^. — ,,~.^^^^ .^^.„„^^.^^^ 420 

From the same — abuse of sweet Eoelefechan—oir, 
" We'll gang nae mair to y-^n Town," is worthy 
of verse*, ^^.„^^^^^^^ ....,..,.*..„-,^^f^^.^.,,...Mf 420 

'YoBBi Mr. IN^i-vson— in asg»er.^.... . . . .B r >^..»»— .■»<. 410 



From the Poet— wltt four Songs, The 97ood 
lark"—" Long, long the Nighr— " ' heir groves 
o swi et Myriles"— " 'Twas na her bonnie blue 

Een was mv n\m ,.^,. .r,;,,s,.s,,s,j.s... .j 4X 
From Mr. Thomson — ^acknowledgments — picturcii. 

for the work, -- - ,,-j.,j . : j. j.. 420-1 

From the Poet— with two Songs, " How crue. are 
the Parents" — " Mark yonder Pomp" — adds, 
•• Vour Tailor could hot be more punctual,",^ 42i 
From the samew-acknowledgment of a present,,.^ 421 
From Mr. Thomson — Clarke's Air to Mallet's Ba»« 

lad of " William and Margaret," ^ ,^. 421 

From he Poet — with four Songs and Verses, 
" O Whistle and I'll come to ye, mv Lad" — " 6 
this is no my ain Lassie" — " Now" Spring has 
clad the Grove in Green" — " O bonnie was yon 
rosy Hrier,"— Inscription on his Poems present- 
ed to a young Lady, > ^^^ ^,^^^ 432 

From Mr. Thomson->in acknowledgment, 422 

From the Poet— with English Song, " Forlorn, 

From the same— with Song, " Last \iav a bra' 
Wo<»er cam' down the lang Glen,"— a Frag- 
ment, > .... ,..„.,,^^,.^^ 

From Mr. Thomson— in answer. 



Frr»m the same— after an awful pause, ^., ,.~»^ 

From the Poet— ackriow ledges a Present to Mrs 
11.— sends Song« " Hey for a Lass wi' a Toch- 



423 
423 
423 



424 
•124 



F'rom Mr. Thomson.— in answer,^...^...,.^..,. 
From the Poet — health has deserted him, not the 

Muse, .,^., ..^ ,.>.„>..< -..>. .^-....^ 424 

From Mr. Thotnson— in answer «>„».........., 42< 

From the Poet— >with Song, " Here's a heal h to 

them that's awa."..,>~.>w.>>>..,~>. ..»..>, .^. ..>.,. ^6 
From the samft>-announces his purpose to le.'ise 

all his Songs..^,^..^.., ^,^^„^.^.^ — .„„.,..> 425 

Fi^m the same — at Sea-bathing — depressed and in 

eVremity, .^.,.,, >.«..„— .,...^^^ .■..^^.■, <SS 

Vx"^ Mt.TbQn^aoo—withaRemittinw^ m tM 



L i F E 



or 



ROBERT BURNS. 



CHAPTER I. 

fJowTKNTS. — 77ie Poefs Birth, 1759 — Chcumstances and peculiar Charaeter of kts Father 
and Mother — Hardships of his Early Years — Sources, such at they were, of his MentOt 
Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 16. 



*' My father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, 
And soberly he brought me up in decency and order " 

Robert Burns was born on the 25th of January 1 759, in a clay-built 
cottage, about two miles to the south of the town of Ayr, and in the im- 
mediate vicinity of the Kirk of Alloway, and the " Auld Brig o' Doon." 

'^.bout a week afterwards, part of the frail dwelling, which his father had 
constructed with his own hands, gave way at midnight ; and the infant 
poet and his mother were carried through the storm, to the shelter of a 
neighbouring hovel. The father, William Burnes or B?irness, (for so he 
spelt his name), was the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, whence he re- 
moved at 19 years of age, in consequence of domestic embarrassments. 
The farm on which the family lived, formed part of the estate forfeited, 
in consequence of the rebellion of 1715, by the noble house of Keith 
Marischall ; and the poet took pleasure in saying, that his humble ances- 
tors shared the principles and the fall of their chiefs. Indeed, after Wil- 
liam Burnes settled in the west of Scotland, there prevailed a vague no- 
tion that he himself had l)€en out in the insurrection of 1745-6 ; but though 
Robert would fain have interpreted his father's silence in favour of a tale 
which flattered his imagination, his brother Gilbert always treated it as a 
mere fiction, and such it was. Gilbert found among his father's papers a 
certificate of the minister of his native parish, testifying that " the bearer, 
William Burnes, had no hand in the late wicked rebellion." It is easy to 
«uppose that when any obsc"'*e northern stranger fixed himself in those 
days in the Low Country, such rumours were likely enough to be circu- 

Xed concerning him 



H LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

William Barnes laboured for some years in the neighbourhood of Edin- 
b.urgh as a gardener, and then found his way into Ayrshire. At the time 
when Robert was bjrn, he was gardener and overseer to a gentleman of 
small estate, Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm ; but resided on a few acres f^f 
land, which he had on lease from another proprietor, and where he ha- 
originally intended to establish himself as a nurseryman. He married 
Agnes Brown in December 1757, and the poet was their first-born. V\'il- 
Ham Burnes seems to have been, in his humble station, a man eminently 
entitled to respect. He had received the ordinary learning of a Scottish 
parish school, and profited largely both by that and by his own experience 
in the world. " I have met v/ith kw,'' (said the poet, after he had him- 
self seen a good deal of mankind), •' who understood men, their manners, 
and their ways, equal to my father." He was a strictly religious man. 
There exists in his handwriting a little manual of theology, in the fori" 
of a dialogue, which he drew up for the use of his children, and frcn. 
which it appears that he had adopted more of the Arminian than of the 
Calvinistic doctrine ; a circumstance not to be wondered at, when we con- 
sider that he had been educated in a district which was never numbered 
iimong the strongholds of the Presbyterian church. The affectionate re- 
verence with which his children ever regarded him, is attested by all wno 
have described him as he appeared in his domestic circle ; but there needs 
no evidence b<;side that of the poet himself, who has painted, in colours 
that will never fade, " the saint, the father, and the husband," of The 
Cotturs Saturday Night. 

Agnes Brown, the wife of this good man, is described as " a very sagaci- 
ous woman, witliout any appearance of forwardness, or awkwardness of man- 
ner;" and it seems thai, in features, and, as he grew up, in general address, 
the poet resembled her more than his lather. She had an inexhaustible store 
of ballads and ' ^(^Jtionary tales, and appears to have nourished his infant 
imagination b} tnis means, while her husband paid more attention to " the 
weightier matters of the law." These worthy people laboured hard for 
the sup}Krt of an increasing family. William was occupied with Mr. Fer- 
guson's service, and Agnes contrived to manage a small dairy as well as 
her children. But though their honesty and diligence merited better things, 
their condition continued to be very uncomfortable ; and our poet, (in his 
letter to Dr. Moore), accounts distinctly for his being born and bred " a 
very poor man's son," by the remark, that " stubborn ungainly integrity, 
and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances." 

These defects of temper did not, however, obscure the sterling wortL 
of \\ illiam Burnes in the eyes of Mr. Ferguson ; who, when his garde- 
ner expressed a wish to try his for tuneon a farm of his, then vacant, and 
confessed at the same time his inability to meet the charges of stocking it, 
at once advanced I 100 towards the removal of the difficulty, burnes ac- 
cordingly removed to this farm (that of Mount Oliphant, in the parish of 
Ayr) at Whitsuntide 176(), when his eldest son was between six and seven 
years of age. But the soil proved to be of the most ungrateful descrip- 
tion ; and Mr. Ferguson dying, and his affairs falling into the hands of a 
WdVbh factor, (who afterwards sat for his pictuie in the Twa Dogs\ Burnes 
was glad to give up his bargain at the end of six years. He then removed 
about ten miles to a larger and better farm, that of Lochlea, in the parish 
of Tarbolton. But here, after a short interval of prosperity, some unfbr- 
timate misunderstanding took place as to the conditions of the le^se ; the 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. iii 

dispute was referred to arbitration ; and, after three years of suspense, the 
result involved Burnes in ruin. The worthy man lived to know of this de- 
cision ; but death saved him from witnessing its necessary consequences. 
He died of consumption on the l^^th February 1784. Severe labour, and 
hopes only renewed to be baffled, had at last exhausted a robust but irri- 
table structure and temperament of body and of mind. 

In the midst of the harassing struggles which found this termination, 
William Burnes appears to have used his utmost exertions for promoting 
the mental improvement of his children — a duty rarely neglected by Scot- 
tish parents, however humble their station, and scanty their means may 
be. Robert was sent, in his sixth year, to a small school at Alloway 
Miln, about a mile from the house in which he was born ; but Campbell, 
the teacher, being in the course of a few months removed to another 
feititation. Burnes and four or five of his neighbours engaged Mr. John 
Murdoch to supply his place, lodging him by turns in their own houses, 
and ensuring to him a small payment of money quarterly. Robert Burns, 
and Gilbert his next brother, were the aptest and the favourite pupils of 
this worthy man, who survived till very lately, and who has, in a letter 
published at length by Currie, detailed, with honest pride, the part which 
he had in the early education of our poet. He became the frequent in- 
mate and confidential friend of the family, and speaks with enthusiasm of 
the virtues of William Barnes, and of the peaceful and happy life of his 
humble abode. 

" He was (says Murdoch) a tender and affectionate father ; he took plea- 
sure in leading his children in the path of virtue : not in driving them, as 
some parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are 
averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when 
he did rebuke, hi was listened to with a kmd of reverential awe. A look 
of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so : and a stripe with 
the toivz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a 
loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears. 

*' He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were 
labourers under him. 1 think 1 never saw him angry but twice : the one 
time it was with the foreman of the band, for not reaping the field as he 
was desired; and the other time, it was with an old man, for using smutty 
inuendos and double entamlres'' " In this mean cottage, of which I my- 
self was at times an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger por- 
tion of content than in any palace in Europe. The Cottar's Saturday Night 
will give "some idea of the temper and manners that prevailed there." 

The boys, under the joint tuition of Murdoch and their father, made ra- 
pid progress in reading, spelhng, and writing ; they committed psalms and 
hymuis to memory with extraordinary ease — the teacher taking care (as he 
tells u«) that they should understand the exact meaning of each word in 
the sentence ere they tried to get it by heart. '• As soon," says he, " as 
they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose 
order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words ; 
and to supply all the ellipses. Robert and Gilbert were generally at the 
upper end of the class, even when ranged vath boys by far their seniors, 
The books most commonly used in the school were the Spelling Book* 
the New Testament, the Bible, Masons Col taction of Prose and Verse, and 
Fisher's English Grammar" — " Gilbert alw ys appeard to me to possess a 
mere lively imagination, and to be more o the wit, than Robert. I at« 



1 I V LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

I tempted to teach them a little church-music. Here they were kit; far be» 

j i hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's eai, in particular, was remark- 

; ably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them 

: ; to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was general- 

, I ly grave and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful min(.L 

j I Gilbert's face said, Mirth, with thee I mean to live ; and certainly, if any 

; I person who knew the two boys, had been asked which of them was the 

; : most likely to court the Muses, he would never have guessed that Robert 

j j had a propensity of that kind." 

I I "At those years," says the poet himself, in 1787, " I was by no means 

I 1 , a fav.-^urite with anybody. I was a good deal noted foi i? retentive memory, 

j ' a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot 

I I piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost 

I ' the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; 

> and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substan- 

i I lives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed 

j I much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her 

i j ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest 

j I collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, 

, I brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, 

; I wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other 

j j trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong 

! j an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I 

' i sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though nobody 

I I can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an ef- 

; i fort of philoso})hy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition 

^ I that I recollect taking pleasure in, was The Vision of Mirza^ and a hymn 

; I of Addison's, beginning. How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! I particular- 

\ \y remember one half-stanza, which was music to m}'^ boyish ear — 

j "" For though on dreadful whirls we hung 

{ High on the broken wave — " 

I I I met with these pieces in Masons English Collection, one of my school- 

1 I books. The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me 

I I more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were, The Life of Han- 

I I nihal, and The History of Sir William, Wallace. Hannibal gave my young 

i ! ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the 

i I recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; 

; I while the story of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice into my 

I ! rebs, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal 

j I rest." 

! ! Murdoch continued his instructions until the family had been about two 

j i years at Mount Oliphant — when he left for a time that part of the country. 

i I "There being no school near us," says Gilbert Burns, " and our little ser- 

I ' vices being already useful on the farm, my father undertook tc teach us arith^ 

I metic in the winter evenings by candle hght — and in this way my two eldei 

; sisters received all the education they ever received " Gilbert tells an anec- 

j dote which must not be oi litted here, since it furnishes an early instance 

I I of the liveliness of his bro her's imagination. Murdoch, being on a visit 

I I to the family, read aloud on - evening part of the tragedy of Titus Andro- 

; ! nicug — the circle listened \^ h the deepest interest until he came to Act 

! I 8, DC. 5, where Lavinia is troduced ' with her hands cut off, and her 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. * 

tongae cut out." At this the children entreated, with one voice, in an 
agony of distress, that their friend would read no more. " If ye will not 
hear the play out," said William Burnes, " it need not be left with you. ' 
— " If it be left," cries Robert, *' I will burn it." His father was aboul 
to chide him for this return to Murdoch's kindness — but the good young 
man interfered, saying he liked to see so much sensibility, and left TIil 
School for Love in place of his truculent tragedy. At this time Robert 
was nine years of age. " Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be 
more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we 
rai ely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no 
boy .V of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest 
part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shopkeepers 
arid people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their 
farm in the country, at the same time that they followed business in town, 
^iy father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He con- 
versed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was 
at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to 
lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our know- 
ledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salmons Geogra- 
phical Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
situation and history of the different countries in the world ; while, from a 
book-society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Derhanis Physico 
and Astro Theology, and Bays Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us 
some idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert read all these books 
with an avidity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had beer. 
a subscriber to Sfachhouse's History of the Bible. From this Robert col - 
lected a competent knowledge of ancient history ; for no book was so vc- 
luminous as to slacken his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his researches.*' 
A collection of letters by eminent English authors, is mentioned as having 
fallen into Burns's hands much about the same time, and greatly delighted 
him. 

When Burns was about thirteen or fourteen years old, his father sent 
him and Gilbert " week about, during a summer quarter," to the parish 
school of Dalrymple, two or three miles distant from Mount Oliphant, fbi 
the improvement of their penmanship. The good man could not pay two 
fees ; or his two boys could not be spared at the same time from the la- 
bour of the farm ! " We lived very poorly," says the poet. " 1 was a dex- 
terous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother, 
(Gilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the 
corn. A novel writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some 
satisfaction, but so did not I My indignation yet boils at the recollection 
of the scoundrel factor's insolent letters, which used to set us all in tears." 
Gilbert Burns gives his brother's situation at this period in greater detail 
— " To the buffetings of misfortune," says he, " we could only oppose 
hard labour and the most rigid economy We lived very sparingly. For 
several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while all the 
members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strerigth 
and rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the age 
of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the c op of corn, and at fifteen was the 
principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. 
The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under these straits and 
difficulties, was very great. To think of oui fathei growing old (for he was 



li 



n LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

now above fifty), broken down with the long-continued fatigues of his life 
with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances, 
these reflections produced in my brother's mind and mine sensations of the 
deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- 
riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits 
with which Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. 
At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull 
headach. which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpita- 
tion of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in 
the night-time." 

The year after this, Burns was able to gain three weeks of respite, one 
before, and two after the harvest, from the labours which were thus stniici- 
ing his youthful strength. His tutor Murdoch was now established in the 
town of Ayr, and the boy spent one of these weeks in revising the Engli'.*;h 
grammar with him ; the other two were given to French. He labour(^d 
enthusiastically in the new pursuit, and came home at the end of a fort- 
night with a dictionary and a Telemr/que, of which he made such use at his 
eisure hours, by himself, that in a short time (if we may beheve Gilbert) 
he was able to understand any ordinary book of French prose. His pro- 
gress, whatever it really amounted to, was looked on as something of a 
prodigy ; and a writing-master in Ayr, a friend of Murdoch, insisted that 
Robert Burns must next attempt the rvdiments of die Latin tongue. He 
did so, but with little perseverance, we may be sure, since the results were 
of no sort of value. Burns's Latin consisted of a few scraps of hackneyed 
quotations, such as many that never looked into Ivuddiman's Rudiments 
can apply, on occasion, quite as skilfully as he ever appears to have done. 
The matter is one of no importance ; we might perhaps safely dismiss it 
with parodying what Ben Jonson said of Shakspeare ; he had little 
French, and no Latin. Lie had read, however, and read well, ere his six- 
teenth 3'^ear elapsed, no contemptible amount of the literature of his own 
country. In addition to the books wliich have already been mentioned, he 
tells us that, ere the family quitted Mount Oliphant, he had read " the 
Spectator, some plays of fehakspeare, Pope, (the Homer included), Tull 
and Dickson on Agriculture, Locke on the Human Understanding, .Jus- 
tice's British Gardeners Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Taylor's Scripture 
Doctrine of Origi?ial Si?i, A Select Collection of English Songs, Hervey's 
Meditations,'' (a book which has ever been very popular among the Scottish 
j peasantry), " and the Works of Allan Ramsay ;" and Gilbert adds to this 
list Pamela, (the first novel either of the brothers read), two stray vo- 
I lumes of Peregrine Pickle, two of Count Fathom, and a single volume of 
1 " some English historian," containing the reigns of James L, and his son. 
I The " Collection of Songs," says Burns, was my vade mecum. I pored 
I over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by 
verse ; carefully noticing the true, tender, oi' sublime, from aft'ectation or 
fustian ; and 1 am convinced I owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, 
such as it is." 

He derived, during this period, considerable advantages from the vicmity 
I of Mount Oliphant to the town of Ayr — a place then, and still, distrnguish- 
ed by the resideitce of many respectable gentlemen's families, and a con- 
sequent elegance of society and manners, not common in remote provin-< 
cial situations. To his friend, Mr. Murdoch, he no doubt owed, in the first 
iinstance, whatever attentions he received there fiom people older as weU 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. vH 

as higlier than himself: some such persons appear to have taken & pleasure 
in lending him books, and surely no kindness could have been mme useful 
to him than this. As for his coevals, he himself says, very justl}, " It is 
not commonly at that green age that our young gentry have a just sense 
of the distance between them and their ragged playfellows. M?/ young 
superiors," he proceeds, " never insulted the clouterJy appearance of my 
olough-boy carcass, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all 
the inclemencies of all the seasons. They would give me stray volumes 
of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observation ; and 
one, whose heart I am sure not even the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, 
helped me to a little French. Parting with these, my young friends and 
benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was of- 
ten to me a sore affliction, — ^but I was soon called to more serious evils." — 
(Letter to Moore). The condition of the family during the last two years 
of their residence at Mount Oliphant, when the struggle which ended in 
their removal was rapidly approaching its crisis, has been already describ- 
ed ; nor need we dwell again on the untimely burden of sorrow, as well atj 
toil, which fell to the share of the youthful poet, and which would have 
broken altogether any mind wherein feelings like his had existed, without 
strength like his to control them. The removal of the family to Lochlea, 
in the parish of Tarbolton, took place when Burns was in his sixteenth year 
He had some time before this made his first attempt in verse, and the occa- 
sion is thus described by himself in his letter to Moore. " This kind of life— - 
the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, 
brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I first commit- 
ted the sin of Rhyme. You know ouY country custom of coupling a man and 
woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- 
tumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. 
My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language ; but you know the Scottish idiom — she was a bormie, siveet, so7isie 
lass. In short, she. altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that 
delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin- horse pru- 
dence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our 
dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the contagion, I cannot tetl : 
you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the 
touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know 
myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in 
the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart- 
strings thrill like an ^olian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such 
a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick cut 
the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qua- 
ities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I attempted 
giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as m 
imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who 
had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be com- 
posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom 
he was in love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; 
for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father hving 
in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. 

" Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my 
r>rlv, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoy 



viil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

The earliest of the poet's productions is the little balUd, 

'* O once I loved a bonny lass. 

Bums himself characterises it as " a very puerile and silly performance ," 
yet it contains here and there lines of whicn he need hardly have been 
ashamed at any period of his life : — 

♦* She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Baith decent and genteel, 
And then there's something in her g 
Gars ony dress look weel." 

" Silly and puerile as it is," said the poet, long afterwards, " I am al- 
ways pleased with this song, as it recalls to my mind those happy days 
when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue sincere...! composed it in a 
wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour 1 never recollect it but my 
heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remembrance.'* (MS. Memorandum 
book, August 1783.) 

In his first epistle to Lapraik (1785) he says — 

** Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
1 to the cranibo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude and rough ; 
Yet crooning to a body*s sell 

Does weel eneugh." 

And in some nobler verses, entitled " On my Early Days,** we have the 
following passage : — 

** I mind it weel in early date. 

When I was beardless, young and blate, 

And first could thrash the barn, 
Or baud a yokin' o' the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Vet unco proud to learn — 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckoned was, 
An' wi' the lave ilk merry mom 

Could rank my rig and las»— . 
Still shearing and clearing 

The tither stookit raw, 
Wi' claivers and haivers 

Wearing the day awa — 
E'en then a wish, I mind its power, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast : 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some useful plan or book could make. 

Or sing a sang, at least : 
The rough bur-thistle spreading wide 

Amang tlie bearded bear. 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 

And spared the symbol dear.** 

He is hardly to be envied who can contemplate without emotion, this 
exquisite picture of young nature and young genius. It was amidst such 
scenes that this extraordinary being felt those first indefinite stirrings oi 
immortal ambition, which he has himself shadowed out under the magnifi- 
cent image of '* the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops, around the walls 
of liis cave." 



CHAPTER II. 

»\>«TKNTs.— /^o» 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as Zabourer$^ 
at stated Wages — At Rural Wurk the Poet feared no Competitor — This period not marked 
ly much Mental Improvement — At Dancing- School — Progress in Love and Pi.etry — A 
School at Kirhoswald's — Bad Company — At Irvine — Flaxdressing — Becomes there Mem 
her of a Batchelors' Club, 



•* O enviable early days. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's mazt) 

To care and guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchajiged for riper times, 
To feel the follies or the crimes 

Of others — or my own !" 

As has been already mentioned, William Burnes now quitted Mount 
Olipliant for Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, for some little 
space, fortune appeared to smile on his industry and frugality. Robert 
and Gilbert were employed by their father as regular abourers — he allow- 
ing them £1 of wages each per annum ; from which sum, however, the 
value of any home-made clothes received by the youths was exactly de- 
ducted. Robert Burns's person, inured to daily toil, and continually expos- 
ed to every variety of weather, presented, before the usual time, every cha- 
racteristic of robust and vigorous manhood. He says himself, that he never 
feared a competitor in any species of rural exertion ; and Gilbert Burns, 
a man of uncommon bodily strength, adds, that neither he, nor any labourer 
he ever saw at work, was equal to the youthful poet, either in the corn 
field, or the severer tasks of the thrashing-floor. Gilbert says, that Ro- 
bert's literary zeal slackened considerably after their removal to Tarbolton. 
He was separated from his acquaintances of the town of Ayr, and proba- 
bly missed not only the stimulus of their conversation, but the kindness 
that had furnished him with his supply, such as it was, of books. But the 
main source of his change of habits about this period was, it is confessed 
on all hands, the precocious fervour of one of his own turbulent passions. 

" In my seventeenth year," says Burns, " to give my manners a brush, i 
went t(f a country dancing-school. — My father had an unaccountable anti- 
pathy against these meetings ; and my going was, what to this moment I 
rtpint, in opposition to his wishes. My father was subject to strong pab 
«ious from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike 
to me which I believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked my 
succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness, 
and soViety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life ; for though the 
Will o'-Vvisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights oi 
my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years 
alterwards within the line of innocence. The great misfortune of my life 
was to want an aim. I saw my father's situation entailed or me perpetual 
labour. The only two openings by ich J could enter the temple of For 



._J 



X LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tune, wer" the gate of nigardly economy, or the path of little chicaning 
bargain-making. The first is so contracted an apertm-e, I could nevei 
squeeze myself into it ; — the last I always hated— there was contamination 
in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a 
strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride 
of observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochondria 
cism that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, m}- 
'-eputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a 
strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense -• and vt 
will not seem surprising that 1 was generally a welcome guest wheic 1 vi- 
sited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met togethes, 
there was 1 among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, 
WHS, un penchant pour tadorahlemoitie ciu genre hiimain. My heart was com- 
pletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other; 
and as in every other warfare in this world my fortune was various, some- 
times I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a 
repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor and 
thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther fo; my 
labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the 
way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love adven- 
ture without an assisting confidant. 1 possessed a curiosity, zeal, and in- 
fepid dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occa- 
sions, and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of 
half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing 
the intrigues of half the courts of Europe." 

In regard to the same critical period of Burns's life, his excellent brother 
writes as follows : — " 1 wonder how Robert could attribute to our father that 
lasting resentment of his going to a dancing-school against his will, of which 
he was incapable. 1 believe the truth was, that about this time he began 
to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's passions, ?is well as his 
not being amenable to counsel, which often irritated my father, and which 
he would naturally think a dancing school was not likely to correct. But 
he was proud of Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expen&e on 
cultivating than on the rest of the family — and he was equally delighted 
with his warmth of heart, and conversational powers. He had indeed that 
dislike of dancing-schools which Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it 
during Robert's first month of attendance, that he permitted the rest of 
the family that were fit for it, to accompany him during the second month. 
Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond of it. 
And thus the seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from the 
seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of my brother's age) were not mafkei* ^y 
much hterary improvement ; but, during this time, the foundation was laid 
of certain habits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but 
too prominent, and which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge 
on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse 
*vith women, yet when he approached manhood, his attaclmient to their 
society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some 
fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were often such as nearly tc 
equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that he 
fainted, sunk, and died away ; but the agitations of his mind and body 
exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a 
particular jealousy of people who were richer than himself, or wiio had 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xi 

-njre conseq ence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons 
of this description. When he selected any one out of the sovereignty ol 
his good pleasure to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was 
instait y invested with a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful 
stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a great dissimilitude 
between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed 
when invested with the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned 
paramount in his affections ; but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward 

Madame de L at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were 

upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions^ which 
formed so many under-plots in the drama of his love." 

Thus occupied with labour, love, and dancing, the youth *' without an 
aim" found leisure occasionally to clothe the sufficiently various moods oi 
his mind in rhymes. It was as early as seventeen, (he tells us),* tiiat he 
wrote some stanzas which begin beaLitifully : 

" I dream'd I lay where flowers were springuig 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
Listening to the wild birds singing 

By a fallen crystal stream. 
Straight the sky grew black and daring, 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave, 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling drnmlie wave. 
Such was life's de^ eitful morning." Slc 

On comparing these verses witl those on " Handsome Nell," the ad- 
vance achieved by the young bard in the course of two sWort years, must 
be regarded with admiration ; nor should a minor circumstance be entirely 
orerlooked, that in the piece which we have just been quoting, there occurs 
but one Scotch word, it waa about this time, also, that he wrote a ballad ol 
much less ambitious vein, which, years after, he says, he used to con over 
with delight, because of the faithfulness with which it recalled to him the 
circumstances and feelings of his opening manhood. 

• ~" My father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, 
And carefully he brought me up in decency and order. 
And bade me act a manly part, tho' I had ne'er a farthing ; 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine ; 
TAo' to he rich was not my wish^ yet to he great was charming f 
My talents they were not the worst., nor yet my education ; 
Resolved was I at least to try to mend my situation. 



No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me; 
80 1 must toil, and sweat, and broil, and labour to sustain me. 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early ; 
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly. 

Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, thro' life I'm doomed to wander; 
Till down my weary bones i lay, in everlasting slumber. 
No view, nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorroir; 
I live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow," &c. 

Tliese are the only two of his very early productions in which we ha>e 
lothing expressly about love. The rest were composed to celebrate the 
:harms of tliose rural beauties who followed each other in the dominion of 

• Reliques, p. 242 



nu LIFE OF ROBERT BCRNS 

Iiis fancy — or shared the capricious throne between them ; and we maj 
easily believe, that one who possessed, with his other qualifications, such 
powers of flattering, feared competitors as little in the diversions of his 
evenings as in the toils of his day. 

The rural lover, in those districts, pursues his tender vocation in a style, 
♦he especial fascination of which town-bred swains may find it some- 
t'hat difficult to comprehend. After the labours of the day are over, nay, 
very often after he is supposed by the inmates of his own fireside to be in 
his bed, the happy youth thinks little of walking many long Scotch miles 
to the residence of his mistress, who, upon the signal of a tap at her win- 
dow, comes forth to spend a soft hour or two beneath the harvest moon, 
or, if the weather be severe, (a circumstance which never pi events the 
journey from being accomplished), amidst the sheaves of her father's barn. 
This " chappin' out," as they call it, is a custom of which parents com- 
monly wink at, if they do not openly approve, the observance ; and the 
consequences are far, very far, more frequently quite harmless, than per- 
sons not familiar with the peculiar manners and feelings of our peasantry 
may find it easy to believe. Excursions of this class form the theme of 
almost all the songs which Burns is known to have produced about this pe- 
riod, — and such of these juvenile performances as have been preserved, 
are, without exception, beautiful. "^1 hey show how powerfully his boyish 
fancy had been affected by the old rural minstrelsy of his own country, 
and how easily his native taste caught the secret of its charm. The truth 
and simplicity of nature breathe in every line — the images are always just, 
of^en originally happy — and the growing refinement of his ear and judg- 
ment, may be traced in the terser language and more mellow flow of each 
successive ballad. 

The best cf the songs written at this time is that beginning,-— 

*' It was upon a Lammas night, 
When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie. 
The time Hew by wi' tentless heed, 

TiU, 'tween tne late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 
To see me thro' the barley." 

We may let the poet carry on his own story. " A circumstance," says 
he, " which made some alteration on my mind and manners, was, that I 
spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from 
home, at a noted school (Kirkoswald's) to learn mensuration, surveying, 
dialling, &c., in which I made a good progress. But I made a greater pro- 
gress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that 
time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those 
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were 
till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though 
I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet 
I went on vv^ith a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, 
a morth which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming ^/t'^^'e, 
who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me 
off at a tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on 
with my sines and co-aines for a ^qw days more ; but stepping into the gar- 
den one chaiming noon to take the sun's altitude, iiere J met m\ angel 
love : — 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xifc 

" Proserpine, gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower.*' 

" It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remain 
ing vreek 1 staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about 
her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in trie 
country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and inno- 
cent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improved. 
My reading was enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson's 
and Shenstone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I 
engaged several of my school -fellows to keep up a literary correspondence 
with me. This improved me in composition. I had met with a collection 
of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most 
devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a 
comparison between them and the composition of most of my correspon- 
dents flattered my vanity. 1 carried this whim so far, that though I had 
lot three farthings worth of business in the world, yet almost every post 
brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day- 
book and ledger. My life flowed on much in the same course till my 
twenty-third year. Vive ramour, et vive la bagatelle^ were my sole princi- 
ples of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me 
great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie — Tristram Shandi/ and The Man 
of Feeling — were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for 
my mind ; but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. 
I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, 
as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as 
it bordered on fatigue. My passions, once lighted up, raged like so many 
devils, till they found vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, 
like a spell, soothed all into quiet." 

Of the rhymes of those days, few, when he wrote his letter to Moore, had 
appeared in print. Winter, a dirge, an admirably versified piece, is of their 
number ; The Death of Poor Mailie, Mailie's Elegy, and Johjt Barleycorn ; 
and one charming song, inspired by the Nymph of Kirkoswald's, wIkt^sg at* 
tractions put an end to his trigonometry. 

Now westlin winds, and slaughtenn am 

Bring Autumn's pleasant weather; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather. . . . 
— Peggy dear, the evening's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading green and yellow ; 
Come let us stray our gladsome way," &c. 

John Barleycorn is a clever old ballad, very cleverly new-modelled and 
extended ; but the Death and Elegy of Poor Mailie deserve more atten- 
tion. The expiring animal's admonitions touching the education of the 
" poor toop lamb, her son and heir," and the " yowie, silly thing," her 
daughter, are from the same peculiar vein of sly homely wit, embedded 
upon fancy, which he afterwards dug with a bolder hand in the Twa DogSy 
and perhaps to its utmost depth, in his Death and Doctor Hornbook. It 
need scarcely be added, that Poor Mailie was a real personage, though she 
did not actually die until some time after her last words were written. She 
had been purchased by Burns in a frolic, and became exceedingly attached 
to his oerson 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

<« Thro' all the town she trotted by him • 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi* kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faith fu' ne'er came nigh him, 

Than JMailie dead." 

These lilt.e pieces are in a much broader dialect than any of their pm-' 
decessors. His merriment and satire were, from the beginning, Scotch. 
Notn ithstanding the luxurious tone of some of Burns s pieces produced in 
those times, we are assured by himself (and his brother unhesitatingly con- 
hrms the statement) that no positive vice mingled in any of his loves, until 
after he had reached his twenty-third year. He has already told us, that 
his short residence " away from home" at Kirkoswald's, where he mixed 
in the society of seafaring men and smugglers, produced an unfavourable 
alteration on some of his habits ; but in ITHI-'S he spent six months at 
Irvine ; and it is from this period that his brother dates a serious change. 

^' As his numerous connexions," says Gilbert, " were governed by the 
strictest rules of virtue and modesty, (from which he never deviated till 
his twenty- third year), he became anxious to be in a situation to marry 
1 his was not likely to be the case while he remained a farmer, as the stock- 
ing of a farm required a sum of money he saw no probability of being mas- 
ter of for a great Avhile. He and I had for several years taken land of our 
father, for the purpose of raising flax on our own account ; and in the 
course of selling it, Robert began to think of turning flax- dresser, both as 
being suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as subservient to 
the flax -raising." Burns, accordingly, went to a half brother of his mo 
thei s, by name Peacock, a flax-dresser in Irvine, with the view of learn- 
ing ihis new trade, and for some time he applied himself diligently ; but 
misrortune after misfortune attended him. The shop accidentally :;aught 
fire during the carousal of a new-year's-day's morning, and Robert *' was 
left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." — " 1 was obliged," says he, 
" to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune were gathering thick 
round my father's head ; and what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone 
in a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, a belle Jille whom I adored, 
and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the held of matrimony, jilted 
me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that 
brought up the rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy 
being increased to such a degree, that for three months 1 was in a state 
of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got 
their mittimus — Depart from me, ye cursed" The following letter, addressed 
by Burns to his father, three days before the unfortunate fire took place, 
will show abundantly that the gloom of his spirits had little need of that 
aggravation. When we consider by whom, to whom, and under what cir- 
cumstances, it was written, the letter is every way a remarkable one : — 

" Honoured Sir, 
<• I HAVE purposely delayed writing, in he hope that I should have 
the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day; but work comes so hard 
unon us, : .at I do not ch'' ^oC "^o ^^ &<-«.^nt oii tha c,Cf:«)u.M, i» well as for 
some other iittle reasons, which 1 shall tell you at meeting. My health is 
nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder; 
and, on the whole, I a.z) rr^t'^^T better than otherwise, though I meiid by 
i^ery slow degrees. The weakness of my lAerrcs has so debilitated mj 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. X? 

mii'i, that I tiarc neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity 
fo? the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy 
efftcts on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or twc 
my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal, 
and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and for- 
wards in a moral and religious way. I am quite transported at the thought, 
tliat ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the 
pains and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you 
1 am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I 
could contentedly and gladly resign it. 

* The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, I6th, and 17tn 
verses of the 7 th chapter of Re^'elations, than with any ten times as many 
verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm 
with whicli they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for this 
W(Kld, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the 
bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 shall never again be cap- 
able of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether unconcerned 
at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably 
await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet 
them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks 
fo the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much 
nei>lected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remem- 
be^vd ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, 
and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and, with wishing you a 
merry New-year's -day, I shall conclude. 

" I am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son, 

" Robert Burns." 

« P. S. — My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I get 
more." 

The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as follows : — 

" 15. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his tem- 
ple ; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. 

" 16. They shall hunger no mere, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light on 
lliem, nor any heat. 

" 17- For the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall feed tliem, and shall lead thesn 
unto living fountains of waters ; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." 

" This letter," says Dr. Currie, " Ma-itten several years before the publi- 
cation of his Poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was 
hun)ble, displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the 
poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- 
cates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, Burns at this time pos- 
essed a single room for his lodgings, rented, perhaps, at the rate of a shil- 
ling a-week. He passed his days in constant labour as a tlax-dresser, and 
his food consisted chiefly of oat-meal, sent to him from his father's family. 
The store of this humble, though wholesome nutriment, it a})pears, was 
nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he should obtain a sup- 
ply. Yet even in this situation, his active imagination had formed to itself 
oictures of eminence and distinction. His despair of making a figure ic 



Kvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

the world, shows how ardently he wished for honouraole fame ; and hij 
contempt of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression of 
youthful and generous mind. In such a state of reflection, and of suffering, 
the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark boundaries of our earthly 
horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a better world, 
where there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow, and where happiness 
shall be in proportion to the capacity of happiness." — Zi/e, p. 1 02. 

Unhappily for himself and for the world, it was not always in the recol- 
lections of his virtuous home and the study of his Bible, that Burns sought 
for consolation amidst the heavy distresses which *' his youth was heir to ' 
Irvine is a small sea-port ; and here, as at Kirkoswald's, the adventurous 
spirits of a smuggling coast, with all their jovial habits, were to be met 
with in abundance. " He contracted some acquaintance," says Gilbert, 
" of a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose 
society prepared Mm for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which hao 
hitherto restrained him." 

One of the most intimate companions of Burns, while he remained at 
Irvine, seems to have been David Sillar, to whom the Epistle to Da- 
vie, a Brother Poet, was subsequently addressed. Sillar was at this time a 
poor schoolmaster in Irvine, enjoying considerable reputation as a writer 
of local verses : and, according to all accounts, extremely jovial in his life 
and conversation. 

Burns himself thus sums up the results of his residence at Irvine :— 
" From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the princi- 
pal thing which gave ray mind a turn, was a friendship I formed v ith a 
young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune He 
vas the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighborhood, 
taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with ;; view 
of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was ready to 
launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where, 
after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before I was acquaint/,'d with 
him, he had been set ashore by an American privateer, on the wild coast ol 

Connaaght, stripped of every thing His mind was fraught with 

independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admir- 
ed hirn to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In 
some measure 1 succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in 
proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine • 
and 1 was all attention to learn. He was the only man 1 ever saw who was 
a greater fool than myself, where women was the presiding star ; but he 
spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which hitherto Ihad regard- 
ed with horror. Here his friendship did me a mischief." Professor Walker, 
when preparing to write his Sketch of the Poet's life, was informed by an 
aged inhabitant of Irvine, that Burns's chief delight while there was in dis- 
cussing religious topics, particularly in those circles which usually gather 
in a Scotch churchyard after service. The senior added, that Bums com- 
monly tooK the high Calvinistic side in such debates ; and concluded with 
a boast, that " the lad" was indebted to himself in s great measure for 
the gradual adoption of " more liberal opinions." It was during the same 
period, that the poet was first mitiated in the mysteries of free masonry, 
" which was," says his bro ;her, " his first introduction to the life of a boon 
companion." He was ijit reduced to St. Mary's Lodge of Tarbolton by 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xvii 

John Ranken, a ^ery dissipated man of considerable talents, to whom he 
afterwards indited a poetical epistle, which will be noticed in its place. 

" Rhyme," Burns says, " I had given up ;" (on going to Irvine) " but 
meeting with Ferguson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly sound- 
ing lyre with emulating vigour." Neither flax-dressing nor the tavern 
could keep him long from his proper vocation. But it was probably this 
accidental meeting with Ferguson, that in a great measure finally deter- 
mined the Scottish character of Burns's poetry; and indeed, but for the 
lasting sense of this obligation, and some natural sympathy with the persona] 
misfortunes of Ferguson's life, it would be difficult to account for the verv 
high terms in which Burns always mentions his productions 

Shortly before Burns went to Irvine, he, his brother Gilbert, and some 
seven or eight young men besides, all of the parish of Tarbolton, had form- 
ed themselves into a society, which they called the Bachelor's Club ; and 
which met one evening in every month for the purposes of mutual enter- 
tainment and improvement. That their cups were but modestly filled is 
evident ; for the rules of the club did not permit any member to spend 
more than threepence at a sitting. A question was announced for dis- 
cussion at the close of each meeting; and at the next *hey came prepared 
to deliver their sentiments upon the subject-matter th,^s proposed. Burns 
drew up the regulations, and evidently was the principal person. He in- 
troduced his friend Sillar during his stay at Irvine, and the meetings ap- 
pear to have continued as long as the family remained in Tarbolton. Oi 
the sort of questions discussed, we m.ay form some notion from the minute 
of one evening, still extant in Burns's hand-writirg. — Question for Hal- 
loween, (Nov. 11), 1780. — " Suppose a young man, bred a farmer ^ dm 
without any fortujie, has it in his power to iiiarry either of two women^ the one 
a girl of large fortune, hut neither handsome in person, nor agreeable in eon- 
versation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm well enovgh ; 
the other of them a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and behavi- 
our, but without any fortune : which of them shall he choose f* Burns, as 
may be guessed, took the imprudent side in this discussion. 

" On one solitary occasion," says he, " we resolved to meet at Tarbol- 
ton in July, on the race-night, and have a dance in honour of our society. 
Accordingly, we did meet, each one with a partner, and spent the evening 
in such innocence and merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, that 
every brother will long remember it with delight." There can be no doubt 
that Burns would not have patronized this sober association so long, unless 
he had experienced at its assemblies the pleasure of a s'-imulated mind ; 
and as little, that to the habit of arranging his thoughts, and expressing 
them in somewhat of a formal shape, thus early cultivated, we ought to at- 
tribute much of that conversational skill which, when he first mingled with 
the upper world was generally considered as the most remarkable of all iiis 
personal accomplishments. — Burns's associates of the Bachelor's Club, 
must have been young men possessed of talents and acquirements, other- 
wise such minds as his and Gilbert's could not have persisted in measuring 
themselves against theirs ; and we may believe that the periodical display 
of the poet s own vigour and resources, at these club-meetings, and (more 
frequently than his brother approved) at the Free Mason Lodges of Irvine 
and Tarbolton, extended his rural reputation ; and, by degrees, prepared 
persons not immediately included in his own circle, for the extraordinary 
impression which his poetical eflfbrtswere ere long tc cT^^Et-j aU over " the 
Carrick border." 



xvii! LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

David Sillar gives an account of the beginning of his own acquaintance 
vrith Burns, and introduction into this Bachelor's Club, which will always be 
read with much interest. — " Mr. Robert Burns was some time in the parish 
of Tarbolton prior to my acquaintance with him. His social disposition 
easily procured him acquaintance ; but a certain satirical seasoning with 
which he and all poetical geniuses are in some degree influenced, while it 
set the rustic circle in a roar, was not unaccompanied with its kindre<l at- 
tendant, suspicious fear. I recollect hearing his neighbours observe, he had 
a great deal to say for himself, and that they suspected his principles. He 
wore the only tied hair in the parish ; and in the church, his plaid, whicb 
was of a particular colour, I think fillemot, he wrapped in a particulai 
manner round his shoulders. These surmises, and his exterior, had such 
a magnetical influence on my curiosity, as made me particularly solicitous 
of his acquaintance. Whether my acquaintance with Gilbert was casual 
or premeditated, I am not now certain. By him I was introduced: not 
only to his brother, but to the whole of that family, where, in a short time, 
I became a frequent, and I believe, not unwelcome visitant. After the 
commencement of my acquaintance with the bard, we frequently met 
upon Sundays at church, when, between sermons, instead of going with 
our friends or lasses to the inn, we often took a v/alk in the fields. In these 
walks, I have frequently been struck with his facility in addressing the fair 
sex ; and many times, when I have been bashfully anxious how to express 
myself, he would have entered into conversation with them with the great- 
est ease and freedom ; and it was generally a death-blow to our conversa- 
tion, however agreeable, to meet a female acquaintance. Some of the few 
opportunities of a noontide walk that a country life allows her laborious 
sons, he spent on the banks of the river, or in the woods, in the neigh- 
bourhood of Stair, a situation peculiarly adapted to the genius of a rural 
bard. Some book (generally one of those mentioned in his letter to Mr. 
Murdoch) he always carried and read, when not otherwise employed. It 
was likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea, 
in time of a sowen supper, he was so intent on reading, I think Tristram 
Shandy, that his spoon falKng out of his hand, made him exclaim, in a 
tone scarcely imitable, * Alas, poor Yorick !' Such was Burns, and such 
were his associates, when, in May 1781, I was admitted a member of 
the Bachelor's Club." 

The misfortunes of William Burnes thickened apace, as has already been 
&een, and were approaching their crisis at the time when liobert came 
home from his flax-dressing experiment at Irvine. The good old man 
died soon after ; and among other evils which he thus escaped, was an af- 
fliction that would, in his eyes, have been severe. The poet had not, as 
he confesses, come unscathed out of the society of those persons of '• /i- 
beral opinions" with whom he consorted in Irvine ; and he expressly 
attributes to their lessons, the scrape into which he fell soon after " he 
put his hand to plough again." He was compelled, according to the then 
all but universal custom of rural parishes in Scotland, to do penance m 
church, before the congregation, in consequence of the birth of an illegi- 
timate child ; and whatever may be thought of the propriety of such ex- 
hibitions, there can be no difference of op' ion as to the culpable levity 
with which he describes the nature of his offence, and the still more re- 
prehensible bitterness with which, in his Epistle to Ranken, he inveighs 
against the clergyman, who, in rebuking him, only performed what was 



LIFE OF ROBETir BURNS. xb 

then B regular part of the clerical duty, and a part of it that could l:evei 
have been at all agreeable to the worthy man whom he satirizes under 
the appellation of *' Daddie Auld." T/te Poet's Welcome to an Illegitimate 
Child was composed on the same occasion — a piece in which some very 
manly feelings are expressed, along with others which can give no one 
pleasure to contemplate. There is a song in honour of the same occasion, 
or a similar one about the same period. The ra.ntin Dog the Daddie ot, — 
which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying in his shame. 

When I consider his tender affection for the surviving members of his 
own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of 
the father whom he had so recently buried, I cannot believe tliat Burns has 
thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited 
in his bosom. " To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin," 
he who, two years afterwards, wrote The Cottars Saturday Night, had not, 
we may be sure, hardened his heart to the thought of bringing additional 
sorrow and unexpected shame to the fireside of a widowed mother. But 
his false pride recoiled from letting his jovial associates guess how little he 
was able to drown the whispers of the still small voice ; and the fermenting 
bitterness of a mind ill at ease within itself, escaped (as may be too often 
traced in the history of satirists) in the shape of angry sarcasms against 
others, who, whatever their private errors might be, had at least done hira 
no wrong. 

It is impossible not to smile at one item of consolation which Burns pro 
poses to himself on this occasion : — 

*' Tne mair they talk, /'m kend the letter ; 

E'en let them clash 1" 

This IS indeed a singular manifestation of " the last infirmity of noUe 
Boiads." 



CHAPTER IIL 



Contents. — The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of MossgieU^Their incessant 
labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — Not prosperous— The Muse 
anti-cahnnistical — The poet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with he- 
resy — Curious account of these disputes — Early poems prompted by them.— Origin of and 
remarks upon the poet*s principal pieces — Ijove leads him far astray — A crisis— The jail at 
tiix, West Indies — The alternative 



•* The star that rules tny luckless lot 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
And damn'd my fortune to the ^oat; 

But in requit, 
Has bless'd me wi' a random snot 

O' country wit." 

Three months before the death of William Burnes, Robert and Gilbert 
took the farm of Mossgiel, in the neighbouring parish of Mauchline, with 
the view of providing a shelter for their parents, in the storm which they 
had seen gradually thickening, and knew must soon burst ; and to this 
place the whole family removed on William's death. The farm consisted 
of 119 acres, and the rent was i;90. " It was stocked by the property 
and individual savings of the whole family, (says Gilbert), and was a joint 
concern among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary 
wages for the laboui he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance 
and mine was £7 per annum each ; and during the whole time this family 
concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding pe- 
riod at Lochlea, Roberts expenses never, in any one year, exceeded his 
slender income." 

" I entered on this farm," says the poet, " with a full resolution, come, 
go, I will be loise. I read farming books, I calculated crops, I attended 
markets ; and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the. fieah, 
I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfor- 
tunately buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost hali 
our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dog to his 
vomit, and the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire." 

« At the time that our poet took the resolution of becoming wise, he 
procured," says Gilbert, " a little book of blank paper, with the purpose, 
expressed on the first page, of making farming memorandums. These 
farming memorandums are curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, " and a 
ipo !imen may gratify the reader." — Specimens accordingly he gives ; as. 

" O why the deuce should I repine. 
And be an ill foreboder ? 
I'm twenty-three, and five foot ninCr— > 
I'U go and be a sodgert" &c. 



LIFE or ROBERT BURNS. xxi 

■• O leave novells, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 
Such witching books are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks — like Rob IMossgiel. « 
Your fine T )m Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies reel. 
They heat your veins, and fire your brains, 

And then ye're prey for Rob Mossgiel," &c. &C. 

The foui jreai'S duilng which Burns resided on this cold and ungrateful 
farm of Mossgiel, were the most important of his life. It was then that 
his genius developed iis highest energies ; on the works produced in these 
years his fame was first established, and must ever continue mainly to rest', 
it was then also that his personal character came out in all its brightest lights, 
and in all but its darkest shadows; and indeed from the commencement 
of this period, the history of the man may be traced, step by step, in his 
own immortal writings. Burns now began to know that nature had meant 
him for a poet ; and diligently, though as yet in secret, he laboured in 
what he felt to be his destined vocation Gilbert continued for some time 
to be his chief, often indeed his only confidant ; and any thing more inte- 
resting and delightful than this excellent man's account of the manner in 
which the poems included in the first of his brother's publications were 
composed, is certainly not to be found in the annals of literary history. 

The reader has already seen, that long before the earliest of them wa§ 
known beyond the domestic circle, the strength of Burns's understanding, 
and the keenness of his wit, as displayed in his ordinary conversation, and 
more particularly at masonic meetings and debating clubs, (of which he 
formed one in Mauchline, on the Tarbolton model, immediately on his re- 
moval to Mossgiel), had made his name known to some considerable extent 
in the country about Tarbolton, Mauchline, and Irvine ; and ihis prepared 
the way for his poetry. Professor Walker gives an anecdote on this head, 
which must not be omitted. Burns already numbered several clergymen 
among his acquaintances. One of these gentlemen told the Professor, that 
after entering on the clerical profession, he had repeatedly met Burns in 
company, " where," said he, " the acuteness and originality displayed by 
him, the depth of his discernment, the force of his expressions, and the 
authoritative energy of his understanding, had created a sense of his 
power of the extent of which I was unconscious, till it was revealed to 
me by accident. On the occasion of my second appearance in the pulpit, 
I came with an assured and tranquil mind, and though a few persons of 
education were present, advanced some length in the service with my con- 
fidence and self-possession unimpaired ; but when I saw Burns, who was 
of a different parish, unexpectedly enter the church, I was affected with 
a tremor and embarrassment, which suddenly apprised me of the impression 
which my mind, unknown to itself, had previously received." The Pro- 
fessor adds, that the person who had thus unconsciously been measuring 
che stature of the intellectual giant, was not only a maia of good talents 
and education, but '• remarkable for a more than ordinary portion of con 
stitutional firmness." 

Every Scotch peasant w^ho makes any pretension to understanding, is a 
theological critic — and Burns, no doubt, had long ere this time distinguish- 
ed himself considerably among those hard-headed groups that may usually 
be seen gathered together in the church-yard after the sermon is over. It 
mav be guessed that from the time of his residence at Irvine, his stric- 



xxit LIFE OF RO*BERT BURNS. 

tures were too often delivered in no reverend vein. " Polemical dirinity, 
says he to Dr. Moore, in 1787, " about this time, was putting the coun- 
try half mad, an^ I, ambitious of shining in conversation-parties on Sun- 
days, at funerals, Sec, used to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and in* 
discretion, that 1 raised a hue-and-cry of heresy against me, which has not 
ceased to this hour." 

To understand Burns's situation at this time, at once patronized by a 
number of clergymen, and attended with " a hue-and-cry of heresy," we 
must remember his own words, *' that polemical divinity was putting the 
country half mad." Of both the two parties which, ever since the revolu- 
tion of 1()88, have pretty equally divided the Church of Scotland, it so 
happened that some of the most zealous and conspicuous leaders and par- 
tizans were thus op])osed to each other, in constant warfare, in this parti 
cular district ; and their feuds being of course taken up among their con 
gregations, and spleen and prejudice at work, even more furiously in the 
cottage than in t/i£ manse, he who, to the annoyance of the one set of belli 
gerents, could talk like Burns, might count pretty surely, with whateve 
alloy his wit happened to be mingled, on the applause and countenance of 
the enemy. And it is needless to add, they were the less scrupulous sect 
of the two that enjoyed the co-operation, such as it was then, and far more 
important, as in the sequel it came to be, of our poet. 

William Burnes, as we have already seen, though a most exemplary and 
devout man, entertained opinions very difH^'ent from those which conmion- 
ly obtained among the rigid Calvanists of his district. The worthy and 
pious old man himself, therefore, had not improbably infused into his son's 
mind its first prejudice against these persons. The jovial spirits with whom 
Burns associated at Irvine, and afterwards, were of course habitual deriders 
of the manners, as well as the tenets of the 

" Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John Knox.'* 

We have already observed the effect of the young poet's own first collision 
with the ruling powers of presbyterian discipline ; but it was in the very 
act of settling at Mossgiel that Burns formed the connexion, which, more 
than any circumstance besides, influenced him as to the matter now in 
qu(;stion. The farm belonged to the estate of the Earl of Loudoun, but 
the brothers held it on a sub-lease from Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer (i. e. 
attorney) in Mauchline, a man, by every account, of engaging manners, 
opeU; kind, generous, and high-spirited, between whom and Robert Barns, 
a close and intimate friendship was ere long formed. Just about this time 
it happened that Hamilton was at open feud with Mr. Auld, the minister 
of Mauchline, (the same who had already rehuhed the poet), and the ruling 
elders of the parish, in consequence of certain irregularities in his personal 
conduct and deportment, which, according to the usual strict notions ol 
kirk discipline, were considered as fairly demanding the vigorous interfer 
ence of these authorities. The notice of this person, his own landlord, and, 
as it would seem, one of the principal inhabitants of the village of Mauclv- 
line at the time, must, of course, have been very flattering to our polemical 
young farmer. He espoused Gavin Hamilton's quarrel warmly. Hamilton 
was naturally enough disposed to mix up his personal affair with the stand 
ing controversies whereon Auld was at variance with a large and powerfuJ 
body of his brother clergymen ; and by degrees Mr. Hamilton's ardent />ro- 
fe^c^came to be as vehe»nently interested in the church politics of Ayrshire 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxiiS 

as he could have been in politics of another order, had he happened to be 
ft freeman of some open borough, and his patron a candidate for the honour 
of representing it in St. Stephen's. Mr. Cromek has been severely criti- 
cised for some details of Mr. Gavin Hamilton's dissensions vv^ith his parish 
minister ; but perhaps it might have been well to hmit the censure to the 
tone and spirit of the narrative, since there is no doubt that these petty 
squabbles had a large share in directing the early energies of Burns's po- 
etical talents. Even in the west of Scotland, such matters would hardly 
excite much notice now-a-days, but they were quite enough to produce a 
world of vexation and controversy forty years ago ; and the English reader to 
whom all such details are denied, will certainly never be able to compre- 
hend either the merits or the demerits of many of Burns's most remarkable 
productions. Since I have touched on this matter at all, I may as well 
add, that Hamilton's family, though professedly adhering to the Presbyte- 
rian Establishment, had always lain under a strong suspicion of Episcopa- 
lianism. Gavin's grandfather had been curate of Kirkoswald in the troubl- 
ed times that preceded the Revolution, and incurred great and lasting po- 
pular hatred, in consequence of being supposed to have had a principal 
hand in bringing a thousand of the Highland host into that region in 1 677-8. 
The district was commonly said not to have entirely recovered the effects 
of that savage visitation in less than a hundred years ; and the descendants 
and representatives of the Covenanters, whom the curate of Kirkoswald 
had the reputation at least of persecuting, were commonly supposed to re- 
gard with any thing ratlier than ready good-will, his grandson, the witty 
writer of Mauchline. A well-nursed prejudice of this kind was hkel} 
enough to be met by counter-spleen, and such seems to have been the truth 
of the case. The lapse of another generation has sufficed to wipe out every 
trace of feuds, that were still abundantly discernible, in the days when 
Ayrshire first began to ring with the equally zealous applause and vituper- 
ation of, — 

" Poet Burns, 
And his priest-skelping turns" 

It is impossible t/y look back now to the civil war, which then raged 
among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing, that on 
either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame. Proud 
and haughty spirits were unfortunately opposed to each other ; and in the 
superabundant display of zeal as to doctrinal points, neither party seems 
to have mingled much of the charity of the Christian temper. The whole 
exhibition was unlove]}'' — the spectacle of such indecent violence among 
the leading Ecclesiastics of the district, acted most unfavourably on many 
men's minds — and no one can doubt that in the unsettled state of Robert 
Burns's principles, the effect must have been powerful as to him. 

Macgill and Dalrymple. the two ministers of the town of Ayr, had long 
been suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions on several points, par- 
ticularly the doctrine of original sin, and even of the Trinity ; and the for- 
mer at length published an Essay, 

the notice of the Church-courts. More than a year was spent m the dis- 
cussions which arose out of this ; and at last Dr. Macgill was fain to ac- 
knowledge his errors, and promise that he would take an early opportunity 
of apologizing for them to his own congregation from the pulpit — which 
promise, however, he ne\er performed. The gentry of the country took 



jtxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tor the most part, the side of Macgill, who was a man of cold unpopulai 
manners, but of unreproached moral character, and possessed of some ac- 
complishments, though certainly not of distinguished talents. The bulk 
-"f the lower orders espciused, with far more fervid zeal, the cause of those 
who conducted the prosecution against this erring doctor. Gavin Hamil 
ton, and all persons of his stamp, were of course on the side of Macgill— 
Auld, and the Mauchline elders, were his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a 
writer in Ayr, a man of remarkable talents, particularly in public speaking, 
had the principal management of Macgill's cause before the Presbytery, 
and, I believe, also before the Synod. He was an intimate friend of Ha- 
milton, and through him had about this time formed an acquaintance, which 
soon ripened into a warm friendship, with Burns. Burns, therefore, was 
from the beginning a zealous, as in the end he was perhaps the most elFective 
partizan, of the side on which Aiken had staked so much of his reputation. 
Macgill, Dalryraple, and their brethren, suspected, with more or less jus- 
tice, of leaning, to heterodox opinions, are the New Light pastors of his 
earliest satires. The prominent antagonists of these men, and chosen cham- 
pions of the Auld Light, in Ayrshire, it must now be admitted on all hands, 
presented, in many particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad 
a mark as ever tempted the shafts of a satirist. These men prided them- 
selves on being the legitimate and undegenerate descendants ana repre- 
sentatives of the haughty Puritans, who chiefly conducted the overthrow 
of Popery in Scotland, and who ruled for a time, and would fain have con- 
tinued to rule, over both king and people, with a more tyrannical dominion 
than ever the Catholic priesthood itself had been able to exercise amidst 
that high-spirited nation. With the horrors of the Papal system for ever 
in their mouths, these men were in fact as bigoted monks, and almost as 
relentless inquisitors in their hearts, as ever wore cowl and cord — austere 
and ungracious of aspect, coarse and repulsive of address and manners — 
very Pharisees as to the lesser matters of the law, and many of them, to all 
outward appearance at least, overflowing with pharisaical self-conceit, as 
well as monastic bile. That admirable qualities lay concealed under this 
ungainly exterior, and mingled with and checked the worst of these gloomy 
passions, no candid man will permit himself to doubt or suspect for a mo- 
ment ; and that Burns has grossly overcharged his portraits of them, deep- 
ening shadows that were of themselves sufficiently dark, and excluding al- 
together those brighter, and perhaps softer, traits of character, which re- 
deemed the originals within the sympathies of many of the worthiest and 
best of men, seems equally clear. Their bitterest enemies dared not at 
least to bring against them, even when the feud was at its height of fervour 
charges of that heinous sort, which they fearlessly, and 1 fear justly, pre- 
ferred against their antagonists. No one ever accused them of signing the 
Articles, administering the sacraments, and eating the bread of a Church, 
whose fundamental doctrines they disbelieved, and, by insinuation at least 
disavowed. 

The law of Church-patronage was another subject on which controversy 
ran high and furious in the district at the same period ; the actual condi- 
tion of things on this lead being upheld by all the men of the New Light, 
and condemned as equally at variance with the precepts of the gospel, and 
the rights of freemen, by not a few of the other party, and, in particular, 
by certain conspicuous zealots in the immediate neighbourhood of Burns. 
While this warfare raged, there broke out an inteitine discord within the 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xx? 

camp of the faction which he loved not. Two of the foremost leaders oi 
the Auld Light party quarrelled about a question of parish-boundaries 
the matter was taken up in the Presbytery of Kilmarnock, and there, in 
the open court, to which the announcement of the discussion had drawn a 
multitude of tlie country people, and Burns among the rest, the reverend 
divines, hitherto sworn friends and associates, lost all command of temper, 
and abused each other coram populo, with a fiery virulence of personal in- 
vective, such as has long been banished from all popular assemblies, where- 
in the laws of courtesy are enforced by those of a certain unwritten code. 
" The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light," says Burns, " was 
a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both 
of them dramatis pf!rson(C. in niy [IgIj/ F(tir. I had a notion myself, tnat 
the piece had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it tc 
a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not 
guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With 
a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar oj 
applause'' This was The Holy Tuilzie, or Ttoa Herds. The two herdsy 
or pastors, were iVTr. Moodie, minister of Riccartoun, and that fasvourite vic- 
tim of Burns's, John Russell, then minister of Kilmarnock, and afterwards 
of Stirling — " From this time," Burns says, " I began to be known in the 

country as a maker of rhymes Holy Willie s Prayer next made its 

appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several 
meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, and see if any of it might 

be pointed against profane rhymers. Burns's reverend editor, Mr. Paul, 

presents Holy Willies Prayer at full length, although not inserted in Dr. 
Carrie's edition, and calls on the friends of religion to bless the memory of 
the poet who took such a judicious method of" leading the liberal mind to 
a rational view of the nature of piayer." — " This," says that bold com- 
mentator, " was not only the prayer of Holy Willie, but it is merely the 
metrical version of every prayer that is offered up by those who call them- 
selves the pure reformed church of Scotland. In the course of his read- 
ing and polemical warfare, Burns embraced and defended the opinions of 
Taylor of Norwich, Macgill, and that school of Divines. He could not 
reconcile his mind to that picture of the Being, whose very essence is 
love, which is drawn by the high Calvinists or the representatives of the 
Covenanters — namely, that he is disposed to grant salvation to none but 
a few of their sect ; that the whole Pagan world, the disciples of Maho- 
met, the Roman Catholics, the Lutherans, and even the Calvinists who 
differ from them in certain tenets, must, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram, 
descend to the pit of perdition, man, woman, and child, without the possi- 
bility of escape ; but such are the identical doctrines of the Cameronians 
o^ the present day, and such was Holy Willie's style of prayer. The hy- 
pocrisy and dishonesty of the man, who was at the time a reputed Saint, 
were perceived by the discerning penetration of Burns, and to expose 
them he considered his duty. The terrible view of the Deity exhibited 
in that able production is precisely the same view which is given of him, 
in different words, by many devout preachers at present. They inculcate, 
that the greatest sinner is the greatest favourite of heaven — that a reform- 
ed bawd is more acceptable to the Almighty than a pure virgin, who has 
hardly ever transgressed even in thought — that the lost sheep alone will be 
saved, and that the ninety-and-nine out of the hundred will be left in the 
srilderness, to perish without mercy — that the Saviour jf the world loves 



Kxri LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

the elect, not from any lovely qualities which they possess, for they are 
hateful in his sight, but " he loves them because he loves them." Such 
are the sentiments which are breathed by those who are denominated High 
Calvinists, and from which the soul of a poet who loves mankind, andwhc 
has not studied the system in all its bearings, recoils with horror. . . The 
gloomy forbidding representation which they give of the Supreme Being 
has a tendency to produce insanity, and lead to suicide." * 

This l{everend author may be considered as expressing in the above^ 
and in other passages of a similar tendency, the senthnents with which 
even the most audacious of Burns's anti-calvlnistic satires were received 
among the Ayrshire divines of the New Light ; that performances so blas- 
phemous should have been, not only pardoned, but applauded by minis- 
ters of religion, is a singular circumstance, which may go far to make the 
reader comprehend the exaggerated state of party feeling in Burns's native 
county, at the period when he first appealed to the public ear : nor is it 
fair to pronounce sentence upon the young and reckless satirist, without tak- 
ing into consideration the undeniable fact — that in his worst offences of 
this kind, he was encouraged and abet^^ed by those, who, to say nothing 
more about their professional character and authority, were almost the 
only persons of liberal education whose society he had any opportunity of 
approaching at the period in question. Had Burns received, at this time, 
from his clerical friends and patrons, such advice as was tendered, when 
"atlier too late, by a layman who was as far from bigotry on religious sub- 
jects as any man in the world, this great genius might have made his first 
approaches to the public notice in a very different character. — " Let your 
bright talents," — (thus wrote the excellent John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in 
October 1787), — " Let those bright talents which the Almighty has be- 
stowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting 
the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied and forcible as 
yours, may do this in many different modes ; nor is it necessary to be al- 
ways serious, which, you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be 
recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due 
to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and few poets can boast, hke 
Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to 
blot. In particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, 
which makes a m,an an hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dan- 
gerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indi- 
viduals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent 
men have always differed ; and there are certain curious questions, which 
may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom mend the 
heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it is suffi- 
cient that all our sects concur in their views of morals. You will forgive 
me fcr these hints." 

It is amusing to observe how soon even really Bucolic bards learn the 
tricks of their trade : Burns knew already what lustre a compliment gahis 
from being ect in sarcasm, when he made Willie call for special nonce of 

••' Gaun Hamilton's deserts, ... 

He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts ; 
Yet has sae mony taken' arts 

Wi' great and sma" 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

H e steals a>«ra," &c 

• The Rev. Hamilton Paul's life of Burns, pp. 40, 41 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxvn 

Nor is his other patron, Aiken, introduced with inferior skill, as havmg 
merited Willie's most fervent execration by his " glib-tongued" defence of 
the heterodox doctor of Ayr ; 

*' liord ! visit them wha did employ him. 
And for thy people's sake destroy 'em.'* 

Burns owed a compliment to this gentleman for a well-timed exercise ol 
*iis elocutionary talents. " 1 never knew there was any merit in my poems," 
Baid he, " until Mr. Aitken read them into, repute." 

Encouraged by the " roar of applause" which greeted these pieces, thua 
orally promulgated and recommended, he produced in succession various 
satires wherein the same set of persons were lashed ; as The Ordination ; 
The Kirks Alarm^ &c, S:c. ; and last, and best undoubtedly, The Holy 
Fair, in which, unlike the others that have been mentioned, satire keeps 
its own place, and is subservient to the poetry of Burns. This was, in- 
deed, an extraordinarj^ performance ; no partizan of any sect could whisper 
that malice had formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction 
lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to re- 
spect, were held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged amidst the sternest 
mu<-terings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands 
of a national poet. The Holy Fair, however, created admiration, not sur- 
prise, among the circle of domestic friends who had been admitted to watch 
the steps of his progress in an art of which, beyond that circle, little or 
nothing was heard until the youthful poet produced at length a satirical 
master-piece. It is not possible to reconcile the statements of Gilbert and 
others, as to some of the minutiae of the chronological history of Burns's 
previous performances ; but there can be no doubt, that although from 
choice or accident, his first provincial fame was that of a satirist, he had 
some time before any of his philippics on the Auld Light Divines made 
their appearance, exhibited to those who enjoyed his personal confidence, 
a range of imaginative power hardly inferior to what the Holy Fair itself dis- 
plays ; and, at least, such a rapidly improving skill in poetical language 
and versification, as must have prepared them for witnessing, without won- 
der, even the most perfect specimens of his art. Gilbert says, that "among 
the earliest of his poems," was the Epistle to Davie, [i. e. Mr David Sillar), 
and Mr. Walker believes that this was written very soon after the death ot 
William Burnes. This piece is in the very intricate and difficult measure 
of the Cherry and the Slae ; and, on the whole, the poet moves vAth ease 
and grace in his very unnecessary trammels ; but young poets are careless 
beforehand of difficulties which would startle the experienced ; and great 
poets may overcome any difficulties if they once grapple with them ; so 
that I should rather ground my distrust of Gilbert's statement, if it must 
be literally taken, on the celebration of Jean, with which the epistle ter- 
minates : and, after all, she is celebrated in the concluding stanzas, which 
may have been added some time after the first draught. The gloomy cir- 
cumstances of the poet's personal condition, as described in this piece, 
were common, it cannot be doubted, to all the years of his youthful his- 
tory ; so that no particular date is to be founded upon these ; ana if thia 
was the first, certainly it was not the last occasion, on which Burns ex- 
ercised his fancy in the colouring of the very worst issue that could attend 
a life of unsuccessful toil. But Gilbert's recollections, however on trivia] 
points inaccurate, will always be more interesting than any thing that could 



I i xxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURi^S. 

I 

be put in their place. " Robert," says he, " often composed without aiij 

■ regular plan. When any thing made a strong impression on his mind, sc 
\ I as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and 
i i embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on twp or three stanzas to pleaise 
i ! him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud- 

■ ! ing stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, 
I I I think, in summer 1784, when in the interval of harder labour, he and I 

I were wceaing in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the prin- 
j cipal part of his epistle (to Davie). I beheve the first idea of Robert's 
I becoming an author was started on this occasion. 1 was much pleasei^ 
I I with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being 
I } printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I 
j i thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epis- 
i j ties, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed 
[^i to consist principally in the knack of the expression — but here, there was 
I ; a strain of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarce- 
I I ly seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet ; 
I I that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the 
I i consolations that were in store for him when he should go a-begging. Ro- 
1 ( bert seemed very well pleased with my criticism, and he talked of sending 
j j it to some magazine ; but as this plan afforded no opportunity of knowing 
j how it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, I think, in the winter 
I ! following, as we were going together with carts for coal to the family, (and 
I I could yet point out the particular spot), that the author first repeated to 
me the Address to the Deil. The curious idea of such an address was sug- 
i gested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts 
1 and representations we have, from various quarters, of this august person- 
age. Death and Doctor Hornbook, though not published in the Kilmar- 
nock edition, was produced early in the year 17b5. The schoolmaster of 
Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subssitence allowed to that useful 
class of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally 
fallen in with some medical books, and become most hobby -horsically at- 
tached to ^he study of medicine, he had added the sale of a few medi- 
cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of 
j which, overlooking his own incapacity, he had advertised, that " Advice 
would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a 
I mason-meeting in Tarbolton, when the Dominie unfortunately made too 
I ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening 
I from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes 
his meeting with Death, one of those floating ideas of apparitions, he men- 
tions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for 
the rest of the way home. These circumstances he related when he re- 
peated the verses to me next afternoon, as I was holding the plough, ana 
he was letting the water off the field beside me. The Epistle to John Lap- 
raik was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He 
says in that poem. On Fasten-een we had a rockin, I believe he has omit- 
ted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those 
primitive times, when the country-women employed their spare hours io 
spinning on the rock or distaff. This simple implement is a very portable 
one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase oi going a-rocking^ or with the rock. As the con- 
nexion the phrase had with the implement was forj;otten when the reels 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURcJS. xxlx 

gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both 
sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as 
women. It was at one of these rockhigs at our house, when we had twelve 
or fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning — 
" When 1 upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we were informed who was 
the author. Upon this Rooert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik ; and his 
second in reply to his answer. The .verses to the Mouse and Mountain 
Daifiy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author 
was holding the plough ; 1 could point out the particular spot where each 
was composed. Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert 
for poetic com.positions, and some of his best verses were produced while 
he was at that exercise. Several of the poems v/ere produced for the pur- 
pose of bringing ft 'ward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used 
to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture 
of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how 
this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, Man was made to 
Mpurn, was composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he 
thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us 
worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family 
worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for The Cot- 
tars Saturday Night. The hint of the plan, and title of the poem, were taken 
from Ferguson's Farmer s higle. When Robert had not some pleasure 
in view, in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently 
to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday afta* 
noons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the com- 
munity), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their 
number abridged- It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure 
sf hearing the author repeat The Cottar s Saturday Night. I do not recollect 
to have read or heard any thing by which I was more highly electrified. 
The fifth and six stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy 
through my soul." 

The poems mentioned by Gilbert Burns in the above extract, are among 
the most popular of his brother's performances ; and there may be a time 
for recurring to some of their peculiar merits as works of art. It may be 
mentioned here, that John Wilson, alias Dr. Hornbook, was not merely 
compelled to shut up shop as an apothecary, or druggist rather, by the sa- 
tire which bears his name ; but so irresistible was the tide of ridicule, that 
hi« pupils, one by one, deserted him, and he abandoned his Schoolcraft also. 
Removing to Glasgow, and turning himself successfully to commercial 
pui suits. Dr. Hornbook survived the local storm which he could not effec- 
tually withstand, and was often heard in his latter days, when waxing cheer- 
ful and communicative over a bowl of punch, " in the Saltmarket," to bless 
the lucky hour in which th^ dominie of Tarbolton provoked the castigation 
of Robert Burns. In those days the Scotch universities did not turn out 
doctors of physic by the hundred ; Mr. Wilson's was probably the only 
medicine-chest from which salts and senna were distributed for the benefit 
of a considerable circuit of parishes ; and his advice, to say the least of the 
matter, was perhaps as good as could be had, for love or money, among the 
wise women who were the only rivals of his practice. The poem wl ich 
drove him from Ayrshire was not, vve may believe, either expected or de- 
signed to produce any such serious effect. Poor Hornbook and the poet 
were old acquaintances, and in some sort rital wits at the time in the ma 
son lodce. 



xxjL LIFE O? ROBERT BURNS. 

In Man was made to Mourn, whatever might be the casual idea that seS 
the poet to work, it is but too evident, that he wrote from the habitual 
feehngs of his own bosom. The indignation with which he through life 
contemplated the inequahty of human condition, and particularly, the con- 
trast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was 
never more bitterly, nor more loftily expressed, than in some of those 
»tanzaif; :— - 



*•*■ See yonder poor o'erlauour'd wight. 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil. 
And see his lordly fellow worm 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

. If Vm design'd yon lordling's slave- 
By Nature's laws design 'u — 

Why was an independent wish 
E'er planted in my mind ? 

If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty and scorn, 

Or why has man the will and power 
To make his fellow mourn ? * 

" I had^an old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his letters to Mrs. 
Dunlop, " with whom my mother lived in her girlish years ; the good old 
man, for such he was, was blind long ere he died ; during which time his 
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing 
the simple old song of The Life and Age of Man.'' 

In Man was made to Mourn, Burns appears to have taken many hints 
from this ancient ballad, which begins thus : 

*' l.^pon the sixteen hundred year of God, and fifty-three, 

Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, as writings testifie; 

On .January, the sixteenth day, as I did lie alone, 

Wi\h many a sigh^and sob did say —Ah ! man is made to moan !'*• 

Tfie Cottar s Saturday J\ight is, perhaps, of all Burns's pieces, the one 
whose exclusion from the collection, were such things possible now-a-days, 
would be the most injurious, if not to the genius, at least to the character, 
of the man. In spite of many feeble lines, and some heavy stanzas, it ap- 
pears to me, that even his genius would suffer more in estimation, by being 
contemplated in the absence of this poem, than of any other single perform- 
ance he has left us. Loftier flights he certainly has made, but in these he 
remained ^ut a short while on the wing, and effort is too often perceptible ; 
here the motion is easy, gentle, placidly undulating. There is more of the 
conscious security of power, than in any other of his serious pieces of con- 
siderable length ; the whole has the appearance of coming in a full stream 
from the fountain of the heart — a stream that soothes the ear, and has no 
glare on the surface. 

It is delightful to turn from any of the pieces which present so great a 
genius as writhing under an inevitable burden, to this, where his buoyant 
energy seems not even to feel the pressure. The miseries of toil and pe- 
nury, who shall affect to treat as unreal ? Yet they shrunk to small dimen 
sions in the presence of a spirit thus exalted at once, and softened, by the 
pieties of virgin loi e, filial reverence, and domestic devotion. 
• Cromek's Scottish Songs. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxi 

The Cottar s Saturday Night and the Holy Fair have been put in con 
trast, and much marvel made that they should have sprung from the same 
source. " The annual celebration of the Sacrament of the Lord's Suppei 
in the rural parishes of Scotland, has much in it," says the unforf...iate 
Heron, " of those old popish festivals, in which superstition, traffic, and 
amusement, used to be strangely intermingled. Burns saw and seized in 
it one of the happiest of all subjects to aiford scope for the display of that 
strong and piercing sagacity, by which he could almost intuitively distin- 
guish the reasonable from the absurd, and the becoming from the ridiculous j 
of that picturesque power of fancy which enabled him to represent scenes, 
and persons, and groups, and looks, and attitudes, and gestures, in a manner 
almost as lively and impressive, even in words, as if all the artifices and ener- 
gies of the pencil had been employed ; of that knowledge which he had ne- 

'"cessarily acquired of the manners, passions, and prejudices of the rustics 
around him — of whatever was ridiculous, no less than whatever was affect- 
ingly beautiful in rural life." This is very good, but who ever disputed the 
exquisite graphic truth of the poem to which the critic refers ? The ques- 
tion remains as it stood; is there then nothing besides a strange mixture 
of superstition, traffic, and amusement, in the scene which such an annual 
celebration in a rural parish of Scotland presents ? Does nothing of what 
is " affectingly beautiful in rural life," make a part in the original which 
was before the poet's eyes ? Were " Superstition," " Hypocrisy,*' and 
" Fun," the only influences which he might justly have impersonated ^ It 
would be hard, I think, to speak so even of the old popish festivals to which 
Mr. Heron alludes ; it would be hard, surely, to say it of any festival m 
which, mingled as they may be with sanctimonious pretenders, and sur- 
rounded with giddy groups of onlookers, a mighty multitude of devout men 
are assembled for the worship of God, beneath the open heaven, and above 
the tombs of their fathers. 

Let us beware, however, of pushing our censure of a young poet, mad 
with the inspiration of the moment, from whatever source derived, too far 
It can hardly be doubted that the author of The Cottars Saturday Night 
had felt, in his time, all that any man can feel in the contemplation of the 
most sublime of the religious observances of his country ; and as little, that 
had he taken up the subject of this rural sacrament in a solemn mood, he 
might have produced a piece as gravely beautiful, as his Holy Fair is 
quaint, graphic, and picturesque. A scene of family worship, on the other 
hand, I can easily imagine to have come from his hand as pregnant with the 
ludicrous as that Holy Fair itself The family prayers of the Saturday's 
night, and the rural celebration of the Eucharist, are parts of the same sys- 
tem — the system which has made the people of Scotland what they aye — 
and what, it is to be hoped, they will continue to be. And when men ask 
of themselves what this great national poet really thought of a system in 
which minds immeasurably inferior to his can see so much to venerate, it 
is surely just that they should pay most attention to what he has delivered 
under the gravest sanction. 

The Reverend Hamilton Paul does not desert his post on occasion ol 
The Holy Fair ; he lefends that piece as manfully as Holy Willie ; and, 
indeed, expressly applauds Burns for havmg endeavoured to explode < a- 
Duses discountenanced by the General Assembly." Halloween, a descrip 
tive poem, perhaps even more exquisitely wrought than the Holy Fair 

and containing nothing that could ofFenc' ♦^^he feelings of anybody, was pro- 



xxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

duced about the same period. Burns's art had now reached its climax 
but it is time that we shculd revert more particularly' to the personal his- 
tory of the poet. 

Ho seems to have very soon perceived, that the farm of Mossgiel could 
at tic best furnish no more than the bare means of existence to so large 
a family ; and wearied with '< the prospects drear," from which he only 
escaped in occ asional intervals of social merriment, or when gay flashes oi 
solitary fancy, for they were no more, threw sunshine on every thing, he 
very naturally took up the notion of quitting Scotland for a time, and try- 
ing his fortune in the West Indies, where, as is well known, the managers 
of the plantations are, in the great majority of cases, Scotchmen of Burns's 
own rank and condition. His letters show, that on two or three different 
occasions, long before his poetry had excited any attention, he had applied 
for, and nearly obtained appointments of this sort, through the intervention 
of his acquaintances in the sea-port of Irvine. Petty accidents, not worth 
describing, interfered to disappoint him from time to time ; but at last a 
new burst of misfortune rendered him doubly anxious to escape from his 
native land ; and but for an accident, his arrangements would certainly 
have been completed. But we must not come quite so rapidly to the last 
of his Ayrshire love-stories. How many lesser romances of this order were 
evolved and completed during his residence at Mossgiel, it is needless to 
inquire ; that they were many, his songs prove, for in those days he wrote 
no love-songs on imaginary Heroines. Mary Morimn — Behind yon hills 
where Stlnchar fiows — On (ess nock bank there lives a lass — belong to this 
period ; and there are three or four inspired by Mary Campbell— the ob- 
'ect oi'by far the deepest passion that ever Burns knew, and which he has 
accordingly immortalized in the noblest of his elegiacs. In introducing 
to Mr. Thomson's notice the song, — 

" M'ill ye go to the Indies, my ."^Jary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? — 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across the Atlantic's roar ?" 

Burns says, " In my early years, when I was thinking of going to the Wcs« 
Indies, I took this farewell of a dear girl ;" afterwards, in a note on— 

** Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
The Castel o' Montgomerie ; 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
Your waters never drumlie." 

he adds, — " After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affec- 
tion, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequester- 
ed spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farwell be- 
fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among 
her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn 
following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had 
scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried 
my dear girl to her grave in a few days, before I could even hear of her ill- 
ness ;" and Mr. Cromek, speaking of the same " day of parting love." gives 
some further particulars. " This adieu," says that zealous inquirer into the 
details of Burns's story, " was performed with all those simple and striking 
ceremonials, which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS xxxu 

and to impose awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small pui'liiig brook 
—they laved their hands in the limpid stream — and, holding a Bible be- 
tween them, pronounced their vows to be faithful to each othe. . The} 
parted — never to meet again." It is proper to add, that Mr. Cromek's storj; 
has recently been confirmed very strongly by the accidental discovery of a 
Bible presented by Burns to Mary Campbell, in the possession of her still 
surviving sister at Ardrossan. Upon the boards of the first volume is in- 
scribed, in Burns's hand-writing, — " And ye shall not swear by my name 
falsely — I am the Lord." — Levit. chap. xix. v. 12. On the second volume, 
— " Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine 
oath.'* — St. Matth. chap, v., v. 33. And, on a blank leaf of either, — " Ro- 
bert Burns, Mossgiel." How lasting was the poet's remembrance of this 
pure love, and its tragic termination, will be seen hereafter. Highland 
Mary seems to have died ere her lover had made any of his more serious 
attempts in poetry. In the Epistle to Mr. Sillar, (as we have already hint- 
ed), the very earliest, according to Gilbert, of these attempts, the poet 
celebrates " his Davie and his Jean^ This was Jean Armour, a young 
woman, a step, if any thing, above Burns's own rank in life, the daughter 
of a respectable man, a master-mason, in the village of Mauchline, where 
she was at the time the reigning toast, and who still survives, as the re- 
spected wid(w of our poet. There are numberless allusions to her maiden 
charms in the best pieces which he produced at Mossgiel ; amongst others 
is the six Belles of Mauchiine, at the head of whom she is placed. 

** In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles. 
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a ; 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a* : 

** Miss Millar is fine, Miss Markland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw ; 
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss IMorton, 
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'." 

The time is not yet come, in which all the details of this story can be ex- 
pected. Jean Armour found herself pregnant. 

Burns's worldly circumstances were in a most miserable state vi^hen he 
was informed of Miss Armour's condition ; and the first announcement oi 
it staggered him like a blow. He saw nothing for it but to. fly the country 
at once ; and, in a note to James Smith of Mauchline. the confidant of his 
amour, he thus wrote : — " Against two things I am fixed as fate — staying 
at home, and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven, I will not do \ 
— the last, by hell, I will never do ! — A good God bless you, and make 

you happy, up to the warmest weeping wish of parting friendship 

If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, so help me God, in my hour o* 
need." The lovers met accordingly , and the result of the meeting was 
what was to be anticipated from the tenderness and the manliness of Burns's 
feelings. All dread of personal inconvenience yielded at once to the tears 
of the woman he loved, and, ere they parted, he gave into her keeping a 
WTitten acknowledgment of marriage. This, under the circumstances, and 
produced by a person in Miss Armour's condition, according to the Scots 
law, was to be accepted as legal evidence of an irregular marriage having 
really taken place ; it being of course imderstood that the marriage was to 
be formally avowed as soon as the consequences of their imprudence could 
no longer be concealed from her family. The disclosure was deferred to 



ixxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

the las* moment, and it was received by the father of Miss Armour with 
equal surprise and anger. Burns, confessing himself to be unequal to the 
maintenance of a family, proposed to go immediately to Jamaica, where he 
hoped to find better fortunes. He offered, if this were rejected, to aban- 
don his farm, which was by this time a hopeless concern, and earn bread, 
at least for his wife and children, by his labour at home ; but nothing could 
appease the indignation of Armour. By what arguments he prevailed on 
his daughter to take so strange and so painful a step we know not ; but the 
fact is certain, that, at his urgent entreaty, she destroyed the document 

It was under such extraordinary circumstances that Miss Armour be- 
came the mother of twins — Burns's love and pride, the two most powerful 
feelings of liis mind, had been equally wounded. His anger and grief to- 
gether drove him, according to every account, to the verge of absolute 
insanity ; and some of his letters on this occasion, both published and un- 
published, have certainly all the appearance of having been written in as 
deej) a concentration of despair as ever preceded the most awful of human 
calamities. His first thought had been, as we have seen, to fly at once 
frcm the scene of his disgrace and misery ; and this course seemed now to 
be absolutely necessary. He was summoned to find security for the main- 
tenance of the children whom he was prevented from legitimating ; but 
the man who had in his desk the immortal poems to which we have been 
referring above, either disdained to ask, or tried in vain to find, pecuniary 
assistance in his hour of need ; and the only alternative that pretented \t 
I ielf to hjg view was America or a ml 

I 






CHAPTER IV. 

Contents. — The Poet gives up Mossgiel to his Brother Gilbert — Interuls for Jnmaica^ • 
Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit — One (f 600 copies 
printed at Kilmarnock, 17S6 — It brings him extended reputation, and £20 — Also many 
very kiiid friends, but no patron — In these circumstances, Guaging first hinted to him by 
his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Sayings and doings in the fint year of his fame^— 
Jamaica again in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blackloch 
to vublish at Edinburgh, wherein the Poet sojourns. 



** He saw misfortune's cauld nor^-west., 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be I 
So, took a birth afore the mast. 

An' owre the sea." 

Jamaica was now his mark, for at that time the United States were 
QOt looked to as the place of refuge they have since become. After some 
little time, and not a little trouble, the situation of assistant-overseer on 
the estate of Dr. Douglas in that colony, was procured for him by one ol 
his friends in the town of Irvine. Money to pay for his passage, however, 
he had not ; and it at last occurred to him that the few pounds requisite 
for this purpose, might be raised by the publication of some of the finest 
poems that ever delighted mankind. 

His landlord, Gavin Hamilton, Mr. Aiken, and other friends, encouraged 
him warmly ; and after some hesitation, he at length resolved to hazard ar 
experiment which might perhaps better his circumstances ; and, if any tole 
rable number of subscribers could be procured, could not make them worse 
than they were already. His rural patrons exerted themselves with suc- 
cess in the matter ; and so many copies were soon subscribed for, that 
Burns entered into terms with a printer in Kilmarnock, and began to copy 
out his performances for the press. He carried his MSS. piecemeal to the 
printer , and encouraged by the ray of light which unexpected patronage 
had begun to throw on his affairs, composed, while the printing was in pro- 
gress, some of the best poems of the collection. The tale of the l^wa Dogs, 
for instance, with which the volume commenced, is known to have been 
written in the short interval between the publication being determined on 
and the printing begun. His own account of the business to Dr. Moore i.s 
as follows : — 

" I gave up my part of the farm to my brother : in truth, it was only 
nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power roi 
Jamaica. But before leaving my native land, I resolved to publish my 
Poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : 1 
thought they had merit ; and it was a dehcious idea thit I should be called 
a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro 
driver — or, perhaps, a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to th© 



x.vxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

world of spirits. T can truly say that, pauvre inconnu as I then was, I had 
pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this 
moment when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opi- 
nion- that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point 
of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- 
rance of themselves. To know myself, had been all along my constant 
stuv^y. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others : I watch^ 
ed every means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a 
man and as a poet : I studied assiduousl}^ Nature's design in my formation — 
where the lights and shades in character were intended. I was pretty con- 
fident my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the 
roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of 
West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, 
for which I got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.* — My va- 
nity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and 
besides, I pocketed nearly ' 20. This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As 
soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid 
zone, i took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the 
Clyde ; for 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 

*' I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the 
terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless 
pack (>f the law at my heels. 1 had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; 
my chest wafi, on the road to Greenock; I had composed the last song I 
should ever measure in Caledonia, T)te gloomy Jiighl is gathering fust, when 
a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, 
by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." 

To the above rapid narrative of the poet, we may annex a few details, 
gathered from his various biographers and from his own letters. — While 
the Kilmarnock edition was in the press, it appears that his friends Hamil- 
ton and Aiken revolved various schemes for procuring him the means oi 
remaining in Scotland ; and having studied some of the practical branches 
of mathematics, as we have seen, and in particular ganging, it occurred to 
himself that a situation in the Excise might be better suited to him than any- 
other he was at all likely to obtain by the intervention of such patrons as he 
possessed. He appears to have lingered longer after the publication of the 
poems than one might suppose from his own narrative in the hope that 
these gentlemen might at length succeed in their efforts in his behalf The 
poams were received with favour, even with rapture, in the courity of Ayr, 
and ere long over the adjoining counties. " (>ld and young," thus speaks 
Robert Heron, " high and low, grave and gay, learned or ignorant, were 
alike delighted, agitated, transported. I was at that time resident in Gal- 
loway, contiguous to Ayrshire, and 1 can well remember how even plough 
boys and maid- servants would have glady bestowed the wages they earneu 
the most hardly, and which they wanted to purchase necessary clothing, 
f they might but procure the Works of Burns " — The poet soon found 
Jiat his person also had become an object of general curiosity, and that a 
tively interest in his personal fortunes was excited among some of the gen 

* ■iictr: i*u •- "' -^- tliat a single individual. Mr. William ParV~* 

K.iJi\ut.iu)<;.k. pubsciibta for 36 cooita. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxvii 

fry of the district, when the details of his story reached them, as it was 
pretty sure to do, along with his modest and manly preface. * Among 
others, the celebarted Professor Dugald Stewart of lidinbiH'gh, and his ac- 
complished lady, theii resident at their beautiful seat of Catrine, began to 
notice him with much pol te and friendly attention. Dr. Hugh Blair, who 
then held an eminent place in the literary society of Scotland, happened 
to be priying iMr. Stewart a visit, and on reading The Holy Fair, at once 
pronounced it the " work of a very great genius ;" and Mrs> Stewart, her 
self a poetess, tiattered him perhaps still more highly by her warm com- 
mendations Hut above ail, his little volume happened to attract the no- 
tice of Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, a lady of high birth and ample fortune, 
enthusiastically attached to her country, and interested in whatever ap- 
peared to concern the honour of Scotland. fhis excellent woman, while 
slowly recovering from the languor of an illness, laid her hand acciden- 
tally on the new production of the provincial press, and opened the volume 
at The Cottar's Saturdai/ Night. " She read it over,'' says Gilbert, " with 
the greatest pleasure and surprise ; the poet's description of the simple 
cottagers operated on her mind like the charm of a powerful exorcist, re- 
pelling the demon ennui, and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony 
and satisfaction."* Mrs. Dunlop instantly sent an express to Mossgiel, dis- 
tant sixteen miles from her residence, with a very kind letter to Burns, re- 
questing him to supply her. if he could, with half a-dozen copies of the 
Dook, and to call at Dunlop as soon as he could find it convenient. Burns 
was from home, but he acknowledged the favour conferred on him in this 
very interesting letter : — 

" Madam, Ayrshire, 1786. 

" I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much 
honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am 
fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to 
the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to con- 
ceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those 
whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him 
with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, 
Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly 
than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the 
Saviour of his Country. 

" Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief !" 

" The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with 
pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal ; the next was The History of Sir 
William Wallace : for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; 
and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of 
the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
those boyish days I remember in particular being struck with that part on 
Wallace's story where these lines occur — 

" Syne io tho Leglan w<x)d, -when it was late, 
To mak* a silent and a safe retreat." 

• Sec Prose Compositions. 



xxxviil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

" I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my nne ot life allow^ed, 
and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglan wood, 
with as much devout enthsiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as I 
explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman 
to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart 
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure 
equal to his merits." 

Shortly afterwards commenced a personal acquaintance with this ami- 
able and intelligent lady, who seems to have filled in some degree tlie place 
or Sage Mentor to the poet, and who never afterwards ceased to befriend 
him to the utmost of her power His letters to Mrs. Dunlop farm a very 
large proportion of all his subsequent correspondence, and, addressed as 
they were to a person, whose sex, age, rank, and benevolence, inspired at 
once profound respect and a graceful confidence, will ever remain the most 
plea<!ing of all the materials of our poet's biography. 

At the residences of these new acquaintances, Burns was introduced into 
society of a class which he had not before approached ; and of the manner 
in which he stood the trial, Mr. Stewart thus writes to Dr. Currie : — 

" His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, 
manly, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and 
worth ; but without any thing that indicated forwardness, arrogance, or 
vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to 
him ; and listened, with apparent attention and deference, on subjects 
where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. Il 
there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in his tem- 
per, he would, I think, have been still more interesting ; but he had been 
accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his 
dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his man 
ner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable 
among his various attainments than the fluency, and precision, and origi- 
nality of his language, when he spoke in company, more particularly as he 
aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided, more successfully 
than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. At this time, 
Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously 
formed a plan for going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not, 
however, without lamenting that his want of patronage should force him 
to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed 
at no higher an object than the station of an exciseman or gauger in his 
own country." 

The provincial applause of his publication, and the consequent notice ot 
his superiors, however flattering such things must have been, were far from 
administering any essential relief to the urgent necessities of Burns's situa- 
tion. Very shortly after his first visit to Catrine, where he met with the 
young and amiable Basil Lord Daer, whose condescension and kindness on 
the occasion he celebrates in some well-known verses, we find the poet 
writing to his friend, Mr. Aiken of Ayr, in the following sad strain : — " I 
have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within respect 
ing the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the un- 
certainty of getting soon into business, the consequences of my follies, which 
may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and besides, 
I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes 



i^lFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxix 

which you pretty well know — the pang of disappointment, the sting of 
pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on 
my vitals, like vultures, when attention is not called away by society, or 
the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is 
the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of the executioner. 
All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all these reasons I hav« 
only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am 
in, overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale against it." 

He proceeds to say, that he claims no right to complain. " The world 
has in general been kind to me, fully up to my deserts I was for some 
time past fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. 
I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising 
cloud in the chance- directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless, 
I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never 
with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a crea- 
ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however I might pos- 
sess a warm heart, and inoffensive manners, (which last, by the by, was 
rather more than I could well boast, still, more than these passive quali- 
ties, there was something to be do?ie. When all my schoolfellows and 
youthful compeers were striking off, with eager hope and earnest intent, 
on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, 1 was " standing idle 
•n the market place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. You see. Sir, that if to know 
one's errors, were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance ; 
but, according to the reverend Westminster divines, though conviction 
must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it." 

In the midst of all the distresses of this period of suspense. Burns found 
time, as he tells Mr. Aiken, for some " vagaries of the muse ;" and one or 
two of these may deserve to be noticed here, as throwing light on his per- 
sonal demeanour during this first summer of his fame. The poems appear- 
ed in July, and one of the first persons of superior condition (Gilbert, in- 
deed, says the first) who courted his acquaintance in consequence of having 
read them, was Mrs. Stewart of Stair, a beautiful and accomplished lady 
Burns preseaited her on this occasion with some MSS. songs ; and among 
the rset, with one in which her own charms were celebrated in that warm 
strain of compliment which our poet seems to have all along considered 
the most proper to be used whenever this fair lady was to be addressed Id 
rhyme. 

" Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise : 
My JMary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft, as mild evening sweeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my I\lary and me.*' 

It was in the spring of the same year, that he happened, in the course 

of an evening ramble on the banks of the Ayr, to meet with a young and 
lovely unmarried lady, of the family of Alexander of Ballamyle, of whom, 
it was said, her personal charms corresponded with tlie character of her 
mind. The incident gave rise to a poem, of which an account will be 
found in the following letter t3 Miss Alexander, the object of his inspira- 
tion • — 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

« Madam, Mossgiei, 18M Nov. 1785. 

" Poets are such o^itre beings, so much the children tf wajrwuixl fancy 
and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a 
larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment 
and prudence, I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a name 
less stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave 
to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the 
theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is the best my abilities can pro- 
duce ; and what to a good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, it {«■ 
equally sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken frdm real life, though I dare say, Ma 
dam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveiir as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed in the 
favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in 
all the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the 
distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or 
the verdant spreading leaf It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I 
listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every han 
with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my pa 
lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another stati 
Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of 
3^our harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to 
discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature 
gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary 
hawthorn-twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but 
must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from 
the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the 
scene, and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, I spied one 
of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic 
landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted who hold 
commerce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, 
they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised plain 
dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. 

" The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps i 
5»ut poorly answers what might be expected from such a scene. 



'< I have the honour to be," &c. 



'Twas even — the dwey fields were green 

On every blade the peails hang ;• 
The Zephyr wanton 'd round the beam, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen the mavis sang. 

All nature listening seemed the while, 
Except where green- wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed. 
My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 

When musing in a lonely glade, 
A maiden fair 1 chanc'd to spy ; 

Her look was like the morning's eye, 
Her air like nature's vernal smile, 

■ Hang, Scotticism for hung 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xh 

Perfection whispered passing by, 
Behold the lass o' Ballochnnyle !• 

Fair is the morn in flowery IMay, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild; 
When roving through the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile S 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Balloclimyle. 

O had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain. 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain. 
Through weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, I would toU, 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmylci 

Then pride might climb the slippery steep. 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine : 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine. 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

The autumn of this eventful year was now drawing to a close, and Bums, 
4 no had already lingered three months in the hope, which he now consi- 
ttered vain, of an excise appointment, perceived that another year must be 
^st altogether, unless he made up his mind, and secured his passage to 
the West Indies. The Kilmarnock edition of his poems was, however, 
nearly exhausted ; and his friends encouraged him to produce another at 
the same place, with the view of equipping himself the better for the ne- 
cessities of his voyage. But the printer at Kilmarnock would not under- 
take the new impression unless Burns advanced the price of the paper re- 
quired for it ; and with this demand the poet had no means of complying. 
Mr. Ballant}'iie, the chief magistrate of Ayr, (the same gentleman to whom 
the poem on the Twa Brigs of Ayr was afterwards inscribed), oflPered to 
furnish the money ; and probably this kind offer would have been accepted. 
But, ere this matter could be arranged, the prospects of the poe were, in 
a very unexpected manner, altered and improved. 

Burns went to pay a parting visit to Dr. Laurie, minister of Loudoun, 
a gentleman from whom, aiad his accomplished family, he had previously 
received many kind attentions. After taking farewell of this benevolent 
circl<e, the poet proceeded, as the night was setting in, " to convey his 
chest," as he says, " so far on the road to Greenock, where he was to em- 
bark in a few days for America." And it was under these circumstances 
that he composed the song already referred to, which he meant as his fare« 
wrell diige to his native land, and which ends thus :— 

*' Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
ilex heatny moors and winding vales, 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves. 
Pursuing; past unhappy loves. 

• Variation. Tli5 lily's hue and rose's dye 

Bespoke the lass o' I'.allochmyle. 



ii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these — my love with those— 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell, the bonny banks of Ayr." 

Dr. Laurie had given Burns much good counsel, and what comfort he 
could, at parting ; but prudently said nothing of an effort which he had 
previously made in his behalf He had sent a copy of the poems, with a 
sketch of the author's history, to his friend Dr. Thomas Blacklock of Edin- 
burgh, with a request that he would introduce both to the notice of those 
persons whose opinions were at the time most listened to in regard to lite- 
rary productions in Scotland, in the hope that, by their intervention, Burns 
might yet be rescued from the necessity of expatriating himself. Dr. 
Blacklock's answer reached Dr. Laurie a day or two after Burns had made 
his visit, and composed his dirge ; and it was not yet too late. Laurie 
forwarded it immediately to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, who carried it to Burns. 
It is as follows : — 

" I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a tes 
amony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of 
sharing one of the finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine entertain- 
ments of which the human mind is susceptible. A number of avocations 
retarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, however, I have finish- 
ed that pleasing perusal. Many instances have I seen of Nature's force or 
beneficence exerted under numerous and formidable disadvantages ; but 
none equal to that with which you have been kind enough to present me 
There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of wit and hu- 
mour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
nor too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never open the book without 
feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. It was my wish tc have 
expressed my approbation in verse ; but whether from declining life, or a 
temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accom- 
plish that agreeable intention. 

" Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this University, had formerly 
read me three of the poems, and I had desired him to get my name in- 
serted among the subscribers ; but whether this was done or not, 1 never 
could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care to 
have the poems communicated to him by the intervention of some mutual 
friend. It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the per 
formances, and who sought a copy with diligence and ardour, that the 
whole impression is already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to be 
wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more nume- 
rous than the former, could immediately be printed ; as it appears certain 
that its intrinsic merit, and the exertions of the author's friends, might give 
It a more universal circulation than any thing of the kind which has been 
published in my memory." 

We have already seen with what surprise and delight Burns read this 
generous letter. Although he had ere this conversed with more than one 
person of established literary reputation, and received from them atten- 
tions, for which he was ever after grateful, — the despondency of his spirit 
appears to have remained as dark as ever, up to the very hour when his land- 
lord produced Dr. Blacklock's letter. — " There was never," Heron says, 
*• perhaps, one among all mankind whom you might more truly have called 
an angel upon earth than Dr. Blacklock. He was guileless and innocent 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ^ ill 

M a child, yet endowed with manly sagacity and penetration. His heart 
was a perpetual spring of benignity. His feelings were all tremblingly 
alive to the sense of the sublime, the beautiful, the tender, the pious, the 
virtuous. Poetry was to him the dear solace of perpetual blindness." Tht^ 
was not the man to act as Walpole did to Chatterton ; to discourage witL 
feeble praise, and in order to shift off the trouble of future patronage, to 
bid the poet relinquish poetry and mind his plough. — " Dr. Blacklock," 
says Burns himself, " belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had 
not dared to hope. His opinion that I would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a 
single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star 
that had so long shed its blasting influence on my zenith, for once ni&de a 
revolution ta the nadir." 



CHAPTER V. 

CONTENTS — The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7- — By his advent, the condition oj that 
ciiy. Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic, is lighted up, as by a meteo, 
— IFe is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a wnile caressed by the fashionaOle-—. 
What happens to him generally in that new world, and his behaviour under the varying and 
very trying circumstances — The tavern life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond 
all former experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally 
admitted, as not the least of his talents — The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by if, 
while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of ISOO copies by Creech, which yields 
nuch money to the Poet — Resolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed 
mth thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back to the region of poverty and seclusioftm 



" Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All liail thy palaces and tow'til. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ; 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter m thy honour'd shade.'* 

Burns found several of his old Ayrshire acquaintances established in 
Edinburgh, and, I suppose, felt himself constrained to give himself up 
for a brief space to their society. He printed, however, without delay, a 
prospectus of a second edition of his poems, and being introduced by 
Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield to the Earl of Glencairn, that amiaWe 
nobleman easily persuaded Creech, then the chief bookseller in Edinburgh, 
to undertake, the publication. The Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean of 
the Faculty of Advocates, the most agreeable of companions, and the most 
benignant of wits, took him also, as the poet expresses it, " under his 
wing." The kind Blacklock received him with all the warmth of paternal 
affection, and introduced him to Dr. Blair, and other eminent literati; 
his subscription lists were soon filled ; Lord Glrncairn made interest 
with the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of the most distinguished 
members of the northern aristocracy), to accept the dedication of the forth- 
coming edition, and to subscribe individually for copies. Several noblemen, 
especially of the west of Scotland, came forward with subscription-moneys 
considerably beyond the usual rate. In so small a capital, where every 
body knows every body, that which becomes a favourite topic in one 
leading circle of society, soon excites an universal interest ; and before 
Burns had been a fortnight in Edinburgh, we find him writing to ibis 
earliest patron, Gavin Hamilton, in these terms : — " For my own affairs, I 
am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Ban- 
yan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day incribed among 
the wonderful events in the Poor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along 
vith the Black Monday, and the Battle of Bothwell Bridge." 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. x v 

It is but a mr;lanclioly business to trace among the records of literary 
history, the manner in which most great original geniuses have been greet- 
ed on their first appeals to the world, by the contemporary arbiters oi 
taste ; coldly and timidly indeed have the sympathies of professional criti- 
cism flowed on most such occasions in past times and in the present : But 
the reception of Burns was worthy of The Man of Feeling, Mr. Henry 
Mackenzie was a man of genius, and of a polished, as well as a liberal taste. 
After alluding to the provincial circulation and reputation of the first edi- 
tion of the poems, Mr. Mackenzie thus wrote in the Lounger, an Edin 
burgli periodical of that period : — " I hope I shall not be thought to assume 
too much if I endeavour to place him in a higher point of view, to rail 
for a verdict of his country on the merits of his works, and to claim fcr 
him those honours which their excellence appears to deserve. In men- 
tioning the circumstance of his humble station, I mean not to rest his pre- 
tensions solely on that title, or to urge the merits of his poetry, when con- 
sidered in relation to the lowness of his birth, and the little opportunity of 
improvement which his education could afford. These particulars, indeed, 
must excite our wonder at his productions ; but his poetry, considered ab- 
stractedly, and without the apologies arising from his situation, seems to 
me fully entitled to. command our feelings, and to obtain our applause." 

After quoting various passages, in some of which his readerg 

" must discover a liigh tone of feeling, and power, and energy of expres- 
sion, particularly and strongly characteristic of the mind and the voice of 
a poet," and others as shewing " the power of genius, not less admirable 
in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions, or in drawing the 
scenfery of nature," ao'^ " with what uncommon penetration and sagacity 
this heaven-taught p' ugnman, from his humble and unlettered condition, 
had looked on men and manners," the critic concluded with an eloquent 
appeal in behalf of the poet personally : " To repair," said he, " the wrong 
of suffering or neglected merit ; to call forth genius from the obscurity in 
which it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or delight 
the world — these are exertions which give to wealth an enviable superiori 
Jy, to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride."* 

The appeal thus made for such a candidate was not unattended to. 
Burns was only a very short time in Edinburgh when he thus wrote to one 
of his early friends : — '• I was, when first honoured with your notice, too 
obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too sud- 
denly into the glare of polite and learned observation ;" and he concludes 
the same letter with an ominous prayer for " better health and more spi- 
rits."f — Two or three weeks later, we find him writing as follows : — " (Ja- 
nuary 14, 17B7|. I went to a Mason Lodge yesternight, where the M.W 
Grand Master Charteris, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The 
meeting was numerous and elegant : all the different lodges about town were 
prcFtjnt in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great so- 
lemnity, among other general toasts gave, ' Caledonia and Caledonia's bard, 
Brother Burns,' which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied 
honoui s and repeated acclamations. As 1 had no idea such a thing would 
happen, I was downright thunderstruck ; and trembling in ever}' nerve, 
made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, one of the 

■ The Lounger for Saturday, December 9, 1786. 

+ lietter to Mr, Ballantyne of Ayr, December J3, 1786 ; Reliques, p. 12. 



xW LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 

Grand Officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting ac- 
cent, ' very well indeed,' which set me something to rights again." — And 
a few weeks later still, he is thus addressed by one of his old associatei 
who was meditating a visit to Edinburgh. " By all accounts, it will be a 
difficult matter to get a sight of you at all, unless your company is bespoke 
& week beforehand. There are great rumours here of your intimacy with 
the Duchess of Gordon, and other ladies of distinction. I am really told 
that— 

*' Cards to invite, fly by thousands each night ;" 

and if you had one, there would also, I suppose, be * bribes for your old 
secretary.' I observe you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines 
and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Ferguson. Qucerenda pecunia pri* 
mum est — Virtus post nummos^ is a good maxim to thrive by. You seem- 
ed to despise it while in this country ; but, probably, some philosophers 
in Edinburgh have taught you better sense." 

In this proud career, however, the popular idol needed no slave to whis- 
per whence he had risen, and whither he was to return in the ebb of the 
spring-tide of fortune. His " prophetic soul" carried always a sufficient 
memento. He bore all his honours in a manner worthy of himself ; and 
of this the testimonies are so numerous, that the only difficulty is that ot 
selection. " The attentions he received," says Mr. Dugald Stewart, " from 
all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any 
head but his own. I cannot say that 1 could perceive any unfavourable effect 
which they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of manners 
and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the 
country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-importance from the 
number and rank of his new acquaintance." — Professor Walker, who met him 
for the first time, early in the same season, at breakfast in Dr. Blacklock's 
house, has thus recorded his impressions : — " I was not much struck with his 
first appearance, as I had previously heard it described. His person, though 
strong and well knit, and much superior to what might be expected in a 
ploughman, was still rather coarse in its outline. His stature, from want 
of setting up, appeared to be only of the middle size, but was rather above 
it. His motions were firm and decided, and though without any preten- 
sions to grace, were at the same time so free from clownish constraint, as 
to show that he had not always been confined to the society of his profes- 
sion. His countenance was not of that elegant cast, which is most fre- 
quent among the upper ranks, but it was manly and intelligent, and marked i 
oy a thoughtful gravity which shaded at times into sternness. In his large 
dark eye the most striking index of his genius resided. It was full of mind ; 
and would have been singularly expressive, under the management of one 
who could employ it with more art, for the purpose of expression. He 
was plainly, but properly dressed, in a style mid-way between the holiday 
costume of a farmer, and that of the company with which he now associ- 
ated. His black hair, without powder, at a time when it was very gene- 
rally worn, was tied behind, and spread upon his forehead. Upon the 
whole, from his person, physiognomy, and dress, had I met him near a sea- 
port, and been required to guess his condition, I should have probably con- 
jectured him to be the master of a merchant vessel of the most respectable 
class. In no part of his manner was there the slightest degree of affecta- 
tion, nor could a stranger have suspected, from any thing in his behaviour 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlvii 

or conversation, that he had been for some months the fevourite of all the 
.'ashionable circles of a metropolis. In conversation he was powerful. His 
conceptions and expression were of corresponding vigour, and on all subjects 
were as remote as possible from common places. Though some^vhat autho- 
ritative, it was in a way which gave little offence, and was readily imputed 
to his inexperience in those modes of smoothing dissent and softening asser- 
tion, which are important characteristics of polished manners. After break- 
fast I requested him to communicate some of his unpublishe'' p:cc«.o, and 
he recited his farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a des- 
cription of the circumstances in which it was composed, more striking than 
the poem itself I paid particular attention to his recitation, which wa« 
plain, slow, articulate, and forcible, but without any eloquence or art. He 
did not always lay the emphasis with propriety, nor did he humour the 
sentiment by the variations of his voice He was standing, during the time, 
with his face towards the window, to which, and not to his auditors, he di- 
rected his eye — thus depriving himself of any additional effect which the 
language of his composition might have borrowed from the language of hii 
countenance. In this he resembled the generality of singers in ordinary 
company, who, to shun any charge of affectation, withdraw all meaning 
from their features, and lose the advantage by which vocal performers on 
the stage augment the impression, and give energy to the sentiment of the 
aong. The day after my first introduction to Burns, I supped in company 
with him at Dr. Blair's. The other guests were very few, and as each 
had been invited chiefly to have an opportunity of meeting with the poet, 
the Doctor endeavoured to draw him out, and to make him the central 
figure of the group. Though he therefore furnished the greatest propor- 
tion of the conversation, he did no more than what he saw evidently was 
expected." * 

To these reminiscences I shall now add those of one to whom is always 
readily accorded the willing ear, Sir Walter Scott. — He thus writes : — 
*' As for Burns, I may truly say, Virgilium vidi tantum. I was a lad of 
fifteen in 178G-'7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and 
feehng enough to be much interested in his poetry, and would have given 
the world to know him ; but I had very little acquaintance with any lite- 
rary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two 
sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that time 
a clerk of my father's He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to his 
lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word ; otherwise I 
might have seen more of this distinguished man. As it was, 1 saw him 
one day at the late venerable Professor Fergusson's, where there were se- 
veral gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the cele- 
brated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we youngsters sat silent, looked, 
and listened. The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Burns's 
manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, re- 
presenting a soldier lying dead on the snow, ihis dog sitting in misery on 
one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These liues 
irere v^ritten beneath, — 

" Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden*s plain. 
Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain — 
Bmt o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, 
The big drops, mingling with the milk he drew, 

• Morrist)n's Burns, vol. i. pp. Ixxi, Ixxli. 



xiviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 

Gave the sad presage of liis future years, 
The child of misery baptized in tears.'* 

« Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather the ideas which 
it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the 
lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they 
occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unprtmising 
title of The Justice of Peace. I whispered my information to a friend 
present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look anu 
a word, which, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recol.ect, 
with very great pleasure. 

" His person was strong and robust ; his manners rustic, not clownish ; 
a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its ef- 
fect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His 
features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture, but to me it conveys 
the idea, that they are diminished as if seen in perspective. I think his 
countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I 
would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sa- 
gacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, i. e. none of your modern 
agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gude- 
man who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and 
shrewdness in all his lineaments ; the eye alone, I think, indicated the 
poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, 
which glowed (1 say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or inte- 
rest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though 1 have seen 
the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect 
self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who 
were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himsell 
with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness ; and 
when he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at 
the same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conver- 
sation distinctly enough to be quoted, nor did I ever see him again, except 
in the street, where he did not recognise me, as I could not expect he 
should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what lite- 
rary emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his reliet 
were extremely trifling. 1 remember on this occasion 1 mention, I thought 
Burns's acquaintance with English Poetry was rather limited, and also, that 
having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of terguson, he 
talked of them with too much humility as his models ; there was, doubt- 
less, national predilection in his estimate. This is all I can tell you about 
Burns. I have only to add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. 
He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the Laird. 1 do not 
speak in malam partem, when I say, I never saw a man in company with 
his superiors in station and information, more perfectly free from either 
the reality or the affectation of embarrassment. 1 was told, but did not 
observe it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and al- 
ways with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their 
attention particularly. I have heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark 
this. — I do not know any thing I can add to these recollections of forty 
years since." — 

There can be no doubt that Burns made his first appearance at a period 
highly favourable for his reception as a British, and especially as a Scottish 
poet. Nearly forty years had elapsed sin;e the death of Thomson: — 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlix 

Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, had successively disappeared : — Dr. Johnson 
tiad belied the rich promise of his early appearance, and confined him- 
self to prose; and Cowper had hardly begun to be recognized as having 
any considerable pretensions to fill the long vacant throne in England. At 
home — without derogation from the merits either of Douglas or the Min- 
strel, be it said — men must have gone back at least three centuries to find 
a Scottish poet at all entitled to be considered as of that high order to which 
the generous criticism of Mackenzie at once admitted *' the Ayrshire 
Ploughman." Of the form and garb of his composition, much, unquestion- 
abl} and avowedly, was derived from his more immediate predecessors, 
Ramsay and Ferguson : but there was a bold mastery of hand in his pic- 
turesque descriptions, to produce any thing equal to which it was neces- 
sary to recall the days of Christ's Kirk on the Green^ and Peebles to the 
Play ; and in his more solemn pieces, a depth of inspiration, and a massive 
energy of language, to which the dialect of his country had been a stranger, 
at least since " Dunbar the Mackar." The Muses of Scotland had never 
indeed been silent ; and the ancient minstrelsy of the land, of which a slen- 
der portion had as yet been committed to the safeguard of the press, was 
handed from generation to generation, and preserved, in many a fragment, 
faithful images of the peculiar tenderness, and peculiar humour, of the na- 
tional fancy and character — precious representations, wliich Burns himself 
never surpassed in his happiest efforts. But these were fragments ; and 
with a scanty handful of exceptions, the best of them, at least of the seri- 
ous kind, were very ancient. Among the numberless effusions of the 
Jacobite Muse, valuable as we now consider them for the record of man- 
ners and events, it would be difficult to point out half-a-dozen strains 
worthy, for poetical excellence alone, of a place among the old chivalrous 
ballads of the Southern, or even of the Highland Border. Generations had 
passed away since any Scottish poet had appealed to the sympathies of hi& 
countrymen in a lofty Scottish strain. 

The dialect itself had been hardly dealt with. " It is my opinion," said 
Dr. Geddes, " that those who, for almost a century past, have written in 
Scotch, Allan Ramsay not excepted, have not duly discriminated the ge- 
nuine idiom from its vulgarisms. They seem to have acted a similar part 
to certain pretended imitators of Spenser and Milton, who fondly imagine 
that. they are copying from these great models, when they only mimic their 
antique mode of spelling, their obsolete terms, and their irregular construe • 
tions." And although 1 cannot well guess what the doctor considered as 
the irregular constructions of Milton, there can be no doubt of the general 
justice of his observations. Ramsay and Ferguson w>re both men of hum- 
ble condition, the latter of the meanest, the former of no very elegant 
habits ; and the dialect which had once pleased the ears of kings, who 
themselves did not disdain to display its powers and elegances in verse 
did not come untarnished through their hands. Ferguson, who was en- 
tirely town-bred, smells more of the Cowgate than of the country ; and 
pleasing as Ramsay's rustics are, he appears rather to have observed the 
surface of rural manners, in casual excursions to Pennycuikand the Hun 
ter's Tryste, than to have expressed the results of intimate knowledge anc 
sympathy. His dialect was a somewhat incongruous mixture of the Uppei 
Ward of Lanarkshire and the Luckenbooths ; and he could neithe* write 
English verses, nor engraft, English phraseology on his Scotch, without be- 
traying a lamentable want of skill in the use of his instruments. It was re- 

D 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

served for Burns to interpret the inmost soul of the S».<)ttish peasant in alj 
its moods, and in verse exquisitely and intensely Scottish, without degrad- 
ing either his sentiments or Ms language with one touch of vulgarity. Such is 
the delicacy of native taste, and the power of a truly masculine genius. This 
is the more remarkable, when we consider that the dialect of Burns's na- 
tive district is. in all mouths but his own, a peculiarly offensive one. The 
ew poeis * whom the west of Scotland had produced in the old time, were 
all men of high condition ; and who, of course, used the language, not of 
their own villages, buc of Holyrood. Their productions, moreover, in o 
far as they have been produced, had nothing to do with the peculiar cha- 
racter and feeMngs of the men of the we^t. As Burns himself has said,— 
" It is som.ewhat singular, that in Lanark. Renfrew, Ayr, &c. there is 
scarcely an old song or tune, which, from the title, &c. can be guessed to 
belong to, or be the production of, those counties." 

The history of Scottish literature, from the union of the crowns to that 
of the kingdoms, has not yet been made the subject of any separate work 
at all worthy of its importance ; nay, however much we are indebted to the 
learned labours ot' Pinkerton, Irving, and others, enough of the general ob- 
scurity of which Warton complained still continues, to the no small discre- 
dit of so accomplished a nation. But how miserably the literature of the 
country was affected by the loss of the court under whose immediate pa- 
tronage it had, in almost all preceding times, found a measure of protec- 
tion that will ever do honour to the memory of the unfortunate house of 
Stuart appears to be indicated with sufficient plainness in the single fact, 
that no man can point out any Scottish author of the first rank in all the 
long period which intervened between Buchanan and Hume. The re- 
moval of the chief nobility and gentry, consequent on the Legislative Union., 
appeared to destroy our last hopes as a separate nation, possessing a se- 
parate literature of our own ; nay, for a time, to have all but extinguished 
i the flame of intellectual exertion and ambition. Long torn and harassed 
by religious and political feuds, this people had at last heard, as many be- 
lieved, the sentence of irremediable degradation pronounced by the lips of 
their own prince and parliament. The universal spirit of Scotland was 
humbled; the unhappy insurrections of 1715 and 1745 revealed the full 
extent of her internal disunion ; and England took, in some respects, mer- 
ciless advantage of the fallen. 

Time, however, passed on ; and Scotland, recovering at last from the 
blow which had stunned her energies, began to vindicate her pretensions; 
in the only departments which had been left open to her, with a zeal and 
a success which will ever distinguish one of the brightest pages of her his- 
tory. Deprived of every national honour and distinction which it was pos- 
sible to remove — all the high branches of external ambition lopped off, — 
sunk at last, as men thought, effectually into a province, willing to take 
j law y/ith passive submission, in letters as well as polity, from her powerful 
! sister — the old kingdom revived suddenly from her stupor, and once more 
I asserted her name in reclamations which England was compelled not only 
to hear, but to applaud, and " wherewith all Europe rung from side to 
side," at the moment when a national poet came forward to profit by the 
reflux of a thousand half-forgotten sympathies — amidst the full joy of a na* 
tioiial pride revived and re-established beyond the dream of hope. 

• Such as Kennedy, Shaw, Montgomery, and, more lately, Hamilton of trilbertfield. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURN^S. W 

It will always reflect honour on the galaxy of eminent men of letters 
who, in their various departments, shed lustre at that period on the name 
of Scotland, that they suffered no pedantic prejudices to interfere with 
their reception of Burns. Had he not appeared personally among them, 
it may be reasonably doubted whether this would have been so. They 
were men, generally speaking, of verv social habits ; living together in a 
small capital ; nay, almost ai' tS .'u:u , 'ij • :*bout one street, maintaining 
friendly inlorcouise ^^untiuually , not a few oi them considerably addicted 
to the pleasures which have been called, by way of excellence, I presume, 
convivial. Burns's poetry might have procured him access to these circles ; 
but it was the extraordhiary resources he displayed in conversation, the 
strong vigorous sagacity of his observations on life and manners, the splen- 
dour of his wit, and the glowing energy of his eloquence when his feelings 
(vere stirred, that made him the object of serious admiration among these 
practised masters of the arts of talk. There were several of them who 
probably adopted in their hearts the opinion of Newton, that " poetry is 
ingenious nonsense." Adam Smith, for one, could have had no yery ready 
respect at the service of such an unproductive labourer as a maker of Scot- 
tish ballads ; but the stateliest of these philosophers had enough to do to 
maintain the attitude of equality, when brought into personal contact with 
Burns's fcigantic understanding ; and every one of them whose impressions 
on the subject have been recorded, agrees in pronouncing his conversation 
to have been the most remarkable thing about him. And yet it is amus 
ing enough to trace the lingering reluctance of some of these polished scho- 
lars, about admitting, even to themselves, in his absence, what it is cer» 
tain they all felt sufficiently wlien they were actually in his presence. It 
is difficult, for example, to read without a smile that letter of Mr. Dugald 
Stewart, in which he describes himself and Mr. Alison as being surprised 
to discover that Burns, after reading the latter author's elegant Essay on 
Taste, had really been able to form some shrewd enough notion of the 
general principles of the association o? ideas. 

Burns would probably have been more satisfied with himself in these 
learned societies, had he been less addicted to giving free utterance in con- 
versation to the very feelings which formed the noblest inspirations of his 
poetry. His sensibility was a? tremblingly exquisite, as his sense was 
masculine and solid ; and he seems to have ere long suspected that the pro- 
fessional metaphysicians who applauded his rapturous bursts, surveyed them 
in reality with something of the same feeling which may be supposed to 
attend a skilful surgeon's inspection of a curious specimen of morbid ana- 
tomy. Why should he lay his inmost heart thus open to dissectors, who 
took special care to keep the knife from their own breasts ? The secret 
olush that overspread his haughty countenance when such suggestions oc- 
cured to him in his solitary hours, may be traced in the opening lines of a 
diary which he began to keep ere he had been long in Edinburgh. " April 
9, 1787. — As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh, a 
great many characters which are new to one bred up in the shades of life, 
as I have been, I am determined to take down my remarks on the spot. 
Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, that, ' half a word fixed, upon, 
or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how 
it is with the world in general, but with me, making my remarks is by no 
means a so itary pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one 
to be grave with me, some one to please me and help my discrimination. 



1 1 n LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

I i 

i with his or her owi\ remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acut& 
I ness and penetration. The world are so busied with selfish pursuits, am- 
bition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth their while 
to make any observation on what passes around them, except where that 
observation is a sucker, or branch, of the darling plant they are rearing in 
their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of 
novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are cap- 
able of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as that one man may 
pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very inmost 
soul, with unreserved confidence, to another, without hazard of losing pan 
j ' >f that respect which man deserves from man ; or, from the unavoidable 
i Imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. 
I For these reasons 1 am determined to make these pages my confidant. 
I will sketch every character that any way strikes me, to the best of my 
;> power, with unshrinking justice. 1 will insert anecdotes, and take down 
j I remarks, in the old law phrase, without feud or favour. — Where I hit on 
j any thing clever, my own applause will, in some measure, feast my vanity * 
j and. begging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a se- 
! I curity, at least equal to tlie bosom of any friend whatever." And the same 
! I lurking thorn of suspicion peeps out elsewhere in this complaint : " 1 know 
I \ not how it is ; I find 1 can win liking — but not respect." 
I I " Burns (says a great living poet, in commenting on the free style of Dr. 

I ; Currie) was a man of extraordinary genius, whose birth, education, and era- 
: ployments had placed and kept him in a situation far below that in which the 
I I writers and readers of expensive volumes are usually found. Critics upon 
: ; works of fiction have laid it down as a rule that remoteness of place, in 
f : fixing the choice of a subject, and in prescribing the mode of treating it, is 
I : equal in eifect to distance of time ; — restraints may be thrown off accord- 
ingly. Judge then of the delusions which artificial distinctions impose, 



j when to a man like Dr. Currie, writing with views so honourable, the so- 

I cial condition of the individual of whom he was treating, could seem to 
place him at such a distance from the exalted reader, that ceremony might 
be discarded with him, and his memory sacrificed, as it were, almost with- 

I out compunction. This is indeed to be crushed beneath the furrow's 

I weight "* It would be idle to suppose that the feelings here ascribed, and 

! justly, no question, to the amiable and benevolent Currie, did not often 

j find their way into the bosoms of those persons of superior condition and 

I attainments, with whom Burns associated at the period when he first e- 

I merged into the blaze of reputation ; and what found its way into men's 

! oosoms was not likely to avoid betraying itself to the perspicacious glance 

j Df the proud peasant. How perpetually he was alive to the dread of being 

! looked down upon as a man, even by those who most zealously applauded 

j the works of his genius, might perhaps be traced through the whole se- 

j ][uence of his letters. When writing to men of high station, at least, he 

I preserves, in every instance, the attitude of self-defence. But it is only 

i in his own secret tables that we have the fibres of his heart laid bare ; and 
the cancer of this jealousy is seen distinctly at its painful work : habemus 

, reum et cnnfitentem.. " There are few of the sore evils under the sun give 

' me more uneasiness and chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius. 

I nay, of avowed worth, is received everywhere, with the reception which « 

* Mr. Wcsrdsworth's letter to a friend of Burns, p. 12. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lil 

mere ordinary character, decorated with the trappings and futile disfir;;: 
tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his breast glo\vin^; 
with honest pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honoui 
to whom honour is due ; he meets, at a great man's table, a Squire son^.e- 
thing, or a Sir somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives \he 
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, anj' 
one at table ; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abili- 
ties would scarcely have made an eightpenny tailor, and whose heart is not 
worth three farthings, meet with attention and notice, that are withlield 
from the son of genius and poverty ? The noble Glencaii n has wounded 
me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. Ht 
showed so much attention— engrossing attention, one day, to the only 
blockhead at table, (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunder- 
pate, and myself A that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage 
of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevo- 
lently good at parting — God bless him ! though I should never see him 
more, I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so 
capable of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other 
virtues. With Dr Blair I am more at my ease I never respect him with 
humble veneration ; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or 
still more, when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal 
ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. 
When he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye 
measures the difference of our points of elevation, I say to myself, with 
scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him, or his pomp either ?" " It 
is not easy (says Burns) forming an exact judgment of any one ; but, in 
my opinion, Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what industry and 
aj)plication can do. Natural parts like his are frequently to be met with ; 
his vanity is proverbially known among his own acquaintances ; but he is 
lustly at the head of what may be called fine writing, and a critic of the 
first, the very first rank in prose ; even in poetry a bard of nature's mak- 
ing can only take the pass of him. He has a heart, not of the very finest 
water, but far from being an ordinary one. In short, he is a truly worthy 
and most respectable character." 

A nice speculator on the ' follies of the wise,' DTsraeli, * says — ■' Once 
we were nearly receiving from the hand of genius the moat curious sketches 
of the temper, the irascible humours, the delicacy of soul, even to its 
shadowiness, from the warm shvzzos of Burns, when he began a diary of 
his heart— a narrative of characters and events, and a chronology of hi& 
emotions. It was natural for such a creature of sensation and passion to 
project such a regular task, but quite i;upo5sible to get through it." This 
most curious document, it is to be observed, has not yet been printed en- 
tire Another generation will, no doubt, see the whole of the confession ; 
however, what has already been given, it may be surmised, indicates suf- 
ficiently the complexion of Burns's prevailing moods during his moments 
of retirement at this interesting period of his history. It was in such a 
mood (they recurred often enough) that he thus reproached " Nature, par- 
tial nature :" — 

*' Thou givest the as.s his hide, the snail his shell ; 
The invenom'd wasp victorious guards his cell ; 

• D'fsraeli on the Literary Chara«tei', vol. i. p. 136. 



I I fiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 

I ; Bui , on ! thou bitter stepmother, and hard, 

I i To thy poor fenceless naked child, the bard. . 

i i In naked feeling and in aching pride, 

He bears the unbroken blast from every side.' 

I ; No blast pienrd this haughty soul so sharply as the contumely of conde 
\ ' Bcension. 

I ! One of the poet's remarks, when he first came to Edmbmgh, has been 

1 I handed down to us by Cromek. — It was, " that between the men of rustic 
1 ! life and the polite world he obser 'ed little difference — that in the former, 
I j though unpolished by fashion an,d inenlightened by science, he had found 
! ! much observation, and much intelligence — but a refined and accomplished 
! woman was a thing almost new to him, and of which he had formed but a 
very inadequate idea." To be pleased, is the old and the best receipt how 
to please ; and there is abundant evidence that Burns's success, among the 
high-born ladies of Edinburgh, was much greater than among the " stately 
patricians," as he calls them, of his own sex. The vivid expression of one 
of them has almost become proverbial — that she never met with a man, 
" whose conversation so completely carried her off her feet," as Burns's. 
The late Duchess of Gordon, who was remarkable for her own conversa- 
tional talent, as well as for her beauty and address, is supposed to be here 
referred to. But even here, he was destined to feel ere long something of 
the fickleness of fashion. He confessed to one of his old friends, ere the 
season was over, that some who had caressed him the most zealously, no 
longer seemed to know him, when he bowed in passing their carriages, 
and many more acknowledged his salute but coldly. 

It is but too true, that ere this season was over, Burns had formed con* 
nexions in Edinburgh which could not have been regarded with much ap 
probation by the eminent literati, in whose society his debut had made so 
powerful an impression. But how much of the blame, if serious blame^ 
indeed, there was in the matter, ought to attach t^p his own fastidious jea- 
lousy — how much to the mere caprice of human favour, we have scanty 
means of ascertaining : No doubt, both had their share ; and it is also suf 
ficiently apparent that there were many points in Burns's conversational' 
habits which men, accustomed to the delicate observances of refined so- 
ciety, might be more willing to tolerate under the first excitement of per- 
sonal curiosity, than from any very deliberate estimate oi' the claims of such 
a genius, under such circumstances developed He by no means restricted 
his sarcastic observations on those whom he encountered in the world to 
the confidence of his note-book ; but startled polite ears with the utterance 
of audacious epigrams, far too witty not to obtain general circulation m so 
small a society as that of the northern capital, far too bitter not to produce 
deep resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widely as 
admiration. Even when nothing was farther from his thoughts than to in- 
flict pain, his ardour often carried him headlong into sad scrapes ; witness, 
for example, the anecdote given by Professor Walker, of his entering into 
a long discussion of the merits of the popular preachers of the day, at the 
table of Dr. B>lair, and enthusiastically avowing his low opinion of all the 
rest ir comparison with Dr. Blair's own colleague * and most formidable 
rival — a man, certainly, endowed with extraordinary graces of voice and 
manner, a generous and amiable strain of feeling, and a copious flow o) 
language ; hut having no pretensions either to the general accomplishment? 



I 
1 



Or. Robert Walker. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS ^ 

for ftliich Blair was honoured in a most accomplished society, or to the 
polished elegance which he first introduced into the eloquence of the Scot- 
tish pulpit. Mr. Walker well describes the unpleasing effects of such an 
escapade; the conversation during the rest of the evening, •' labouring un- 
der that compulsory effort which was unavoidable, while the thoughts ol 
all were full of the only subject "on which it was improper to speak." Burns 
jhowed his good sense by making no effort to repair this bhmder ; but years 
afterwards, he confessed that he could never recall it without exquisite 
pain. Mr. Walker properly says, it did honour to Dr. Blair that his kind- 
ness remained totally unaltered by this occurrence ; but the Professor 
would have found nothing to admire in that circumstance, had he not been 
well aware of the rarity of such good-nature among the geiius irritabile ot 
authors, orators, and wits. 

A specimen (which some will think worse, some better) is thus recorded 
by Cromek: — " At a private breakfast, in a" literary circle of Edinburgh, 
the conversation turned on the poetical merit and pathos of Grays Elegy 
a poem of which he was enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, re- 
markable for his love of paradox and for his eccentric notions upon every 
subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on this 
exquisite poem, which Burns, with generous warmth for the reputation ol 
Gray, manfully defended. As the gentleman's remarks were rather gene- 
ral than specific, Burns urged him to bring forward the passages which he 
thought exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the poem, but 
always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns bore all this for a good 
while with his usual good-natured forbearance, till at length, goaded by 
the fastidious criticisms and wretched quibblings of his opponent, he roused 
himself, and with an eye flashing contempt and indignation, and with great 
vehemence of gesticulation, he thus addressed the cold critic : — ' Sir, i now 
perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, 

and after all be a d d blockhead.' " — Another of the instances may be 

mentioned, which shew the poet's bluntness of manner, and how true the 
remark afterwards made by Mr. Ramsay is, that in the game of society he 
did not know when to play on or off. While the second edition of his Poems 
was passing through the press. Burns was favoured with many critical sug- 
gestions and amendments ; to one of which only he attended. Blair, read- 
ing over with him, or hearing him recite (which he delighted at all times 
in doing) his Holy Fuir^ stopped him at the stanza — 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation, 
For Russel speels the holy door 

Wi' tidings o' Salvation. — 

Nay, said the Doctor, read damnation. Burns improved the \f it of thib 
verse, undoubtedly, by adopting the emendation ; but he gave another 
strange specimen of want of tact, when he insisted that Dr. Blair, one of 
the most scrupulous observers of clerical propriety, should permit him to 
acknowledge the obligation in a note. 

But to pass from these trifles, it needs no effort of imagination to con 
ceive what tlie sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either 
clergymen or professors) must ha^e been in the presence of this big- boned, 
black-browed, brawny stranger, with his great flashing eyes, who, having 
forced his way among then/ from the plough-tail at a single stride, man' 



M LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

fested, in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough 
conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent men of his nation, he 
was exactly where he was entitled to be , hardly deigned to flatter them 
by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their no- 
tice ; by turns calmly measured himself against the most cultivated under- 
standings of his time in discussion ; overpowered the ban mots of the most 
celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all 
the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the 
thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by compelling them to tremble — nay to 
tremble visibly — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; and ail this 
without indit ating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro 
fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid 'n money and 
smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed of do- 
mg in their own persons, even if they had the power of doing it ; and. — 
last and probably worst of all, — who was known to be in the habit of en- 
livening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more 
frequently than their own, with eloquence no less magnificent ; with wit in 
all likelihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom he 
fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had, 
ere long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves. 

The lawyers of Edinburgh, iin whose wider circles Burns figured at his 
outset, with at least as much success as among the professional literati, 
were a very different race of men from these ; they would neither, 1 take 
it, have pardoned rudeness, nor been alarmed by wit. But being, in those 
days, with scarcely an exception, members of the landed aristocracy of the 
country, and forming by far the most influential body (as indeed they still 
do) in the society of Scotland, they were, perhaps, as proud a set of men 
as ever enjoyed the tranquil pleasures of unquestioned superiority. What 
their haughtiness, as a body, was, may be guessed, when we know that in- 
ferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any 
man from the bar. In one remarkable instance, about this very time, a 
man of very extraordinary talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed 
in a long and painful struggle for admission, and, in reality, for no reasons 
but those I have been alluding to, by gentlemen who in the sequel stood 
at the \ery head of the Whig party in Edinburgh ; * and the same aristo- 
cratical prejudice has, within the memory of the present generation, kept 
more persons of eminent qualifications in the background, for a season, 
than any English reader would easily believe. To this body belonged 
nineteen out of twenty of those " patricians," whose stateliness Burns so 
long remembered and so bitterly resented. It might, perhaps, have been 
well for him had stateliness been the worst fault of their manners. Wine- 
bibbing appears to be in most regions a favourite indulgence with those 
whose brains and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises of legal study 
and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger 
about the inns of court than in any other section of London. In Dublin 
and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now eminently convival bodies of 
men ; but among the Scotch lawyers of the time of Burns, the principle of 
jollity was indeed in its " high and palmy state." He partook largely in 
those tavern scenes of audacious hilai'ity, which then soothed, as a matter 

* .^Ir. John Mild, son of a Tobacconist in the High Street, Edinburgh. He came to be 
Professor of Civil law in that Un -ersity ; but, in th.5 end, was also an instance of unhappf 
genius 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS hft 

:f coune, the arid labours of the northern noblesse de la robe. The tavern- 
life is now-a-days nearly extinct every where ; but it was then in full 
vigour in Edinburgh, and there can be no doubt that Burns rapidly fami- 
'iarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after all, tasted but 
rarely of such excesses while in Ayrshire. So little are we to consider 
his Scotch Drink, and other jovial strains of the early period, as conveying 
any thing like a fair notion of his actual course of life, that " Auld Nanse 
Tinnock," or " Poosie Nancie," the Mauchline landlady, is known to have 
expressed, amujnngly enough, her surprise at the style in which she found 
her name celebrated in the Kilmarnock edition, saying, " that Robert 
Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was regardless, as, to the 
best of her belief be had never taken three half-mutchkins in her house in 
ail ni'? life." And in addition to Gilbert's testimony to the same purpose, 
we have on record that of Mr. Archibald Bruce, a gentleman of great 
worth and discernment, that he had observed Burns closely during that 
period of his life, and seen him " steadily resist such sohcitations and al- 
lurements to excessive convivial enjoyment, as hardly any other person could 
have withstood." — The unfortunate Heron knew Burns weL , and himself 
mingled largely in some of the scenes to which he adverts in the following 
strong language : " The enticements of pleasure too often tjmman our vir- 
tuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern 
brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but, at last, suddenly turn, and 
passionately embrace the enchantress. The bucks of Edinburgh accom- 
plished, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayrshire had failed. 
After residing some months in Edinburgh, he began to estrange himself, 
not altogether, but in some measure, from graver friends. Too many of 
his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who delighted to urge 
conviviality to drunkenness — in the tavern — and in the brothel." It would 
be idle now to attempt passing over these things in silence ; but it could 
serve no good purpose to dwell on them. During this winter. Burns con- 
tinued to lodge with John Richmond, indeed, to share his bed ; and we 
have the authority of this, one of the earliest and kindest friends of the 
poet, for the statement, that while he did so, "• he kept good hours." He 
removed afterwards to the house of Mr. William Nicoll, one of the teachers 
of the High School of Edinburgh. Nicoll was a man of quick parts and 
considerable learning — who had risen from a rank as humble as Burns's 
from the beginning an enthusiastic admirer, and, ere long, a constant associ 
ate of the poet, and a most dangerous associate ; for, with a warm heart, 
the man united an irascible temper, a contempt of the religious institutions 
of his country, and an occasional propensity for the bottle. Of Nicoll's 
letters to Burns, and about him, I have seen many that have never been, 
and probably that never will be, printed — cumbrous and pedantic effusions, 
exhibiting nothing that one can imagine to have been pleasing to the poet, 
except a rapturous admiration of his genius. This man, nevertheless, was, 
I suspect, very far from being an unfavourable specimen of the society to 
whi(h Heron thus alludes: — " He (the poet) svffered himself to be sur 
rounded by a race of miserable beings, who were proud to tell that they 
had been in company with Burns, and had seen Burns as loose and as 
f:olish as themselves. He was not yet irrecoverably lost to temperance 
and moderation ; but he was already almost too much captivated with their 
wanton revels, to be ever more won back to a faithful attachment to their 
more sober charms " Heron adds — " Fie now also began to contract some- 

D2 



tv'm LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

thing of new arrogance in conversation. Accustomed w be, among hit 
favourite associates, what is vulgarly, but expressively called, t-he cock ol 
the company, he could scarcely refrain from indulging in similar freedom 
and dictatorial decision of talk, even in the presence of persons who could 
less patiently endure his presumption ;" * an account ex fade probable, and 
which sufficientl}^ tallies with some hints in Mr. Dugald Stewart's descrip- 
tion of the poet's manners, as he first observed him at Catrine, and with 
one or two anecdotes already cited from Walker and Cromek. 

Of these failings, and indeed of all Burns's failings, it may be safely as- 
serted, that there was more in his history to account and apologize for 
them, than can be alleged in regard to almost any other great man's imper- 
fections. We have seen, how, even in his earliest days, the strong thirst 
of distinction glowed within him — how in his first and rudf>st rhymes he 
sung, 

" to be great is charming ;" 

and we have also seen, that the display of talent in conversation was the 
first means of distinction that occurred to him. It was by that talent that 
he first attracted notice among his fellow peasants, and after he mingled 
with the first Scotsmen of his time, this talent was still that which appear- 
ed the most astonishing of all he possessed. What wonder that heshould 
delight in exerting it where he could exert it the most freely — where there 
was no check upon a tongue that had been accustomed to revel in the li- 
cense of village-mastery ? where every sally, however bold, was sure to be 
received with triumphant applause — where there were no claims to rival 
his — no proud brows to convey rebuke, above all, perhaps, no grave eyes 
to convey regret '" 

But these, assuredly, were not the only feelings that influenced Burns : 
In his own letters, written during his stay in Edinburgh, we have the best 
evidence to the contrary. He shrewdly suspected, from the very begin- 
ning, that the personal notice of the great and the illustrious was not to be 
as lasting as it was eager : he foresaw, that sooner or later he was destined 
to revert to societies less elevated above the pretensions of his birth ; and, 
though his jealous pride might induce him to record his suspicions in lan- 
guage rather too strong than too weak, it is quite impossible to read what 
he wrote without believing that a sincere distrust lay rankling at the roots 
of his heart, all the while that he appeared to be surrounded with an at- 
mosphere of joy and hope. On the 1 5th of January I7S7, we find him 
thus addressing his kind patroness, Mrs. Dunlop : — " You are afraid I shall 
grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, 1 know 
myself and the world too well. 1 do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; 
I am willing to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a 
most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers ol 
polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be dragged forth to 
the full glare of learned and polite observation, wath all my imperfections 
of awkward rusticity, and crude unpolished ideas, on my head, — I assure 
you, Madam, I do not dissemble, when I tell you I tremble for the conse- 
quences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of 
those advantages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at leas 

• Heron p. 28. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS- la 

»\ this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice, which has 
borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities 
sre in idequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time, when the 
same tide will leave me, and recede perhaps as far below the mark of 
truth. ... 1 mention this once for all, to disburden my mind, and I 
do not wish to hear or say any more about it. But — ' When proud for- 
tune's ebbing tide recedes,' you will bear me witness, that when ray bubble 
of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup 
in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve." — And about the same 
time, to Dr. Moore : — " The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the 
greater part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial 
dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish 
is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- 
changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and under- 
stood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and 
as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted 
I with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may 
j have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common, 

which may assist originality of thought I scorn the affecta- 

! tion of seeming modesty to cover self-conc(Mt. That I have some merit, I 
do not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty 
! of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have 
j borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." — And lastly, 
I April the c3d, !787, we have the following passage in a letter also to Dr. 
! Moore : — " I leave Edinburgh in the course often days or a fortnight. I 
1 shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. 
I I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are 
I ill of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles." 
i One word more on the subject which introduced these quotations : — Mr. 

' Dugald Stewart, no doubt, hints at what was a common enough complaint 
I among the elegant literati of Edinburgh, when he alludes, in his letter to 
i Currie, to the " not very select society" in which Burns indulged himself. 
But two points still remain somewhat doubtful ; namely, whether, show 
j and marvel of the season as he v as, the " Ayrshire ploughman'] really had 
I it in his power to live always in society which Mr. Stewart would have con- 
I sidered as " very select ;" and secondly, whether, in so doing, he could 
I have failed to chill the affection of those humble Ayrshire friends, who, hav- 
ing shared with him all that they possessed on his nrst arrival in the metro- 
polis, faithfully and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fashion- 
able favour did, as he foresaw it would do, *' recede ;" and, moreover, per- 
haps to provoke, among the higher circles themselves, criticisms more dis* 
tasteful to his proud stomach, than any probable consequences of the course 
of conduct which he actually pursued. The second edition of Burns's 
poems was published early in March, by Creech ; there were no less than 
I 1500 subscribers, many of whom paid more than the shop-price of the vo- 
lume. Although, therefore, the final settlement with the bookseller did not 
j take place till nearly a year after. Burns now found himself in possession 
I of a considerable sum of ready money ; and the first impulse of his mind 
j was to visit some of the classic scenes of Scottish history and romance. He 
' had as yet seen but a small part of his own country, and this by no means 
I among the most interesting of her districts, until, indeed, his own poetry 
j made it equal, on that score, to any other. — " The appellatir.-: of a Scottish 



1 

Ix LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. I 

hard Is by fir my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most ex- ' 
alted ambition. Scottish scenes, and Scottish story, are the themes I 
could vish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, I 
unplagued with the routine of business, for which, Heaven knows, I am | 
unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on ! 
the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers, i 
and tc nuse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured 
abodes jf her heroes. But these are Utopian views." * j 

The magnificent scenery of the capital itself had filled him with extraor- i 
ainary delight. In the spring mornings, he walked very often to the t0T> ol j 
Arthur's Seat, and, lying prostrate on the turf, surveyed the rising of the j 
sun out of the sea, in silent admiration ; his chosen companion on such oc- 
casions being that ardent lover of nature, and learned artist, Tvlr. Alexander 
Nasmyth. It was to this gentleman, equally devoted to the fine arts, as to 
liberal opinions, that Burns sat for the portrait engraved to Creech's edi- | 
tion, and which is here repeated. Indeed, it has been so often repeated, and , 
has become so familiar, that to omit it now would be felt as a blank equal ; 
almost to the leaving out of one of the principal poems. The poet's dress ' 
has also been chronicled, remarkably as he then appeared in the first hey- i 
day of his reputation, — blue coat and buff vest, with blue stripes, (the ! 
Whig-livery), very tight buckskin breeches, and tight jockey boots I 

The Braid hills, to the south of Edinburgh, were also among his favourite 
morning walks ; and it was in some of these that Mr. Dugald Stewart tells ; 
us, " he charmed him still more by his private conversation than he had | 
ever done in company." " He was," adds the professor, " passionately fond ! 
of the beauties of nature, and I recollect once he told me, when 1 was ad- j 
miring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sigJit of so I 
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which none could un- 
derstand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth 
which they contained." Burns was far too busy with society and observa- 
tion to find time for poetical composition, during his first residence in 
Edinburgh. Creech's edition included some pieces of great merit, which 
had not been previously printed ; but, with the exception of the Address to 
Edinburgh, ail of them appear to have been written before he left Ayrshire. 
Several of them, indeed, were very early productions : The most important 
additions were, Death cuid Doctor Hornbook, The Brigs of Ayr ^ The Ordi- 
nation, and the Address to the luico Guid. In this edition also, When Guild' 
ford guid our pilot stood, made its first appearance. 

The evening before Le quitted Edinburgh, the poet addressed a let' 
ter to Dr. Blair, in which, taking a most respectful farewell of him, and 
expressing, in lively terms, his sense of gratitude for the kindness he had 
shown him, he thus recurs to his own views of his own past and future con- 
dition : "1 have often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation 
However the me tor like novelty of my appearance in the world might at- 
tract notice, i knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to 
the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I 
have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not sur- 
prise me in my quarters." i 

It ought not to be omitted, that our poet bestowed some of the first fruits j 
of Creech's edition in the erection of a decent tombstone over the hitherto I 

• Letter to Mrs. Dunlop Edinburgh, 22d March 1787. I 



L»E OF ROBERT BURNS. 



ixi 



neglectec remains of his unfortunate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the 
Canongato churcl.yard. It seems also due to him here. to insert his Address 
to Edinburgh, — so graphic and comprehensive, — as the proper record of 
the feelings engendered in his susceptible and grateful mind by the kind- 
ness shown to him, in his long visit, and under which feelings he was now 
about to quit it for a time. 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



Edika I Seotia''s darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 



And 



nd singing, lone, the lingering 
I shelter in thy honour'd shade 



hours, 



Here wealth still swells the golden tide. 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes. 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind. 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer's sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy I 
Fail Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Hoav'n's beauties on my fancy shine : 
1 gee tJie sire of love on high^ 

Ai<il otrn hi« work inde^ divine ! 



There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough rude lortress gleams afar : 
Like some bold vet'ran grey in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pon'drous wall and massy bar. 

Grim -rising o'er the rugged rock : 
Have oft withstopd assailing war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought and pitying tear* 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years. 

Famed heroes, had their royal home. 
Alas ! how changed the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ; 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roana ! 

Tbo' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

"V^^ild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
E'en /who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply my sires have left their shed. 
And laced grim dangei's loudest roar. 

Bold following where your fathers ied I 

Eptna ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All haU thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd ihadc. 



CHAPTER VI 

QjlstR'S'T9,-i!^Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia-^Lands from tht first tf them^ 
after an absence of six months, umong&t his friends in the " A?dd Clay Biggin" — Find* 
honour in his own country — Falh in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and 
is familiar with the great, but nerer secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches--^ 
Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fleshpnts, winter ]7S7S'— Upset in a hackney coaih^ 
which produces a bruised limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the Ex^ 
cise — Another crisis, in tvhich the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. 
Dunlop not to desert him — Growls over his publisher, but after settling with him leavet 
E'V'^htirgh with ^500 — Steps towards a more regular life. 



" Ramsay and famous Ferguson, 
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tune 

Thro' Scotland rings, 
While Irvine, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

Naebody sings." 

On the 6tii of May, Burns left Edinburgh, in company with Mr. Robert 
Ainslie, Writer to the Signet, the son of a proprietor in Berwickshire.— 
Among other changes " which fleeting time procureth," this amiable gen- 
tleman, whose youthful gaiety made him a chosen associate of Burns, is now 
chiefly known as the author of some Manuals of Devotion. — They had 
formed the design of perambulating the picturesque scenery of the south- 
ern border, and in particular of visiting the localities celebrated by tlie 
old minstrels, of whose works Burns -was a passionate admirer. 

This was long before the time when those fields of Scottish romance were 
to be made accessible to the curiosity of citizens by stage-coaches ; and 
Burns and his friend performed their tour on horseback ; the former being 
mounted on a favourite mare, whom he had named Jenny Geddes, in ho- 
nour of the good woman who threw her stool at the Dean c ' Edinburgh's 
head on tlie 2:id of July 1 ()37, when 4he attempt was made co introduce a 
Scottish Liturgy into the service of S't. Giles's. The merits of the trusty 
animal have been set forth by the poet in very expressive and humorous 
terms, in a letter to his friend Nicoll while on the road, and which will be 
found entire in the Correspondence. He writes : — " My auld ga'd gleyde 
o' a meere has huchyalled up hill and down brae, as touch and birnie as a 
vera devil, wi' me. It's true she's as puir's a sangmaker, and as hard's a 
kirk, and lipper-laipers when she takes the gate, like a lady's gentlewoman 
in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a yauld poutherin girran 
for a' that. When ance her ringbanes and pavies, her cruiks and cramps, 
are fairly soupled, she beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the 
lightest," &c. &c. 

Burns passed from Edinburgh to Berry well, the residence of Mr. Ainslie's 
family, and visited successively Dunse, Coldstream, Kelso, Fleurs, and the 
ruins of Roxburgh Castle, nea>* which a holly bush still marks the spot on 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixiil 

whio."' Jam^ 3 II. of Scotland was killed by the bursting of a < annon. Jedburgh 
— where he admired the " charming romantic situation of the town, with gar- 
dens and orchards intermingled among the houses of a once magnificent ca- 
thedral tabl ey) ;" and was struck, (as in the other towns of the same district), 
with the appearance of " old rude grandure," and the idleness of decay , 
Melrose, " that far famed glorious ruin," Selkirk, Ettrick, and the braes ol 
Yarrow. Having spent three weeks in this district, of which it has been 
justly said, " that every field has its battle, and every rivulet its t-Hg," 
Burns passed the Border, and visited Alnwick, Warkworth, Morpeth, New- 
castle, Hexham, Wardrue, and Carlisle. He then turned northwards, and 
rode by Annan and Dumfries to Dalswinton, where he examined Mr. 
Miller's property,, and was so much pleased with the soil, and the terms 
on which the landlord was willing to grant him a lease, that he resolved to 
return again in the course of the summer. 

The poet visited, in the course of his tour, Sir James Hall of Dunglas* 
author of the well known Essay on Gothic Architecture^ &c. ; Sir Alexander 
and Lady Harriet Don, (sister to his patron. Lord Glencairn), at Newton- 
Don ; Mr. Brydone, the author of Travels in Sicily ; the amiable and 
learned Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian of Queen Anne, &c. ; and, 
as usual, recorded in his journal his impressions as to their manners and 
characters. His reception was everywhere most flattering. The sketch 
of his tour is a very brief one. It runs thus : — 

" Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, miserably 
dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berrywell. . . 
The family-meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; parti- 
cularly the sister. 

" Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr. Bowmaker. 

" Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic — 
fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. AinsHe and Mr. Foreman. Beat 
Mj-. Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lennel-House with 
Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at 
Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation, of the town — fine 
Dridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on'both sides oi 
the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace 
— fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly bush growing 
where James the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a can- 
non. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden planted by the reli- 
gious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a. maitre d hotel of the 
Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, su- 
perior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great 
ijfiprovements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — magnifi- 
cence of farners and farm houses. Come up the Teviot, and up the Jed 
to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. 

" Wednesday, Breakfast with Mr. Fair. . . . Charming romantic 
situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingled among the 
houses and the ruins of a once magnificent cathedral. All the towns here 
have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine 
romantic little river. Dined with Capt, Rutherford, . . . return to 
Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed v^ith some ladies to be shown Love-lane^ 
wiij Blackburn, two fairj scenes Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to 



.X'..' LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, on* 
Badly addicted to pmining. 



" Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the Magistrates with the fi'ee-" 
dom of the town. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sen. 
sations. 

" Monday, May 14, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club -all gentlemen 
talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter from £30 to i 30 
value, and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr. 
Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind 
and manners, Mr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir 
— Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my 
English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . . 
Sleep at Mr. Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh 
a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come up the 
Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — 
Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." 

He wrote no verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor- 
ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, LUh May. In this 
he makes complimentary allusions to some of the men of letters who were 
used to meet at breakfast in Creech's apartments in those days — whence 
the name of Creech's Levee ; and touches, too, briefly on some of the sce- 
nery he had visited. 

" Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped. 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw." 

Burns returned to Mauchline on the 8th of July. It is pleasing to imagine 
ihe delight with which he must have been received by the family after the 
absence of six months, in which his fortunes and prospects had undergone 
so wonderful a change. He left them comparatively unknown, his tender- 
est feelings torn and wounded by the behaviour of the Armours, and so 
miserably poor, that he had been for some weeks obliged to skulk from the 
Sheriff's officers, to avoid the payment of a paltry debt. He returned, 
his poetical fame established, the whole country ringing with his praises, 
from a capital in which he was known to have formed the wonder and de- 
light of the polite and the learned ; if not rich, yet with more money al- 
ready than any of his kindred had ever hoped to see him possess, and with 
prospects of future patronage and permanent elevation in the scale of so- 
ciety, which might have dazzled steadier eyes than those of maternal and 
fraternal affection. The prophet had at last honour in his own country : 
but the haughty spirit that had preserved its balance in Edinburgh, was 
not likely to lose it at Mauchline ; and we have him writing from the auld 
clay biggin on the 18th of June, in terms as strongly expressive as any 
that ever came from his pen, of that jealous pride which formed the ground' 
work of his character; that dark suspiciousness of fortune, which the sub- 
sequent course of his history too well justified ; that nervous intolerance ol 
condescension, and consummate scorn of meanness, which attended him 
through life, and made the study of his species, for which nature had giver 
him such extraordinary qualifications, the source of more pain than wai 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ixir 

aver counterbalanced by the exquisite capacity for enJDyment with which 
he was also endowed. There are few of his letters in which more of the 
dark traits of his spirit come to light than in the following extract: — 
" I never, my friend, thought mankind capable cf any thing very gene- 
rous ; but the stateliness of the patricians of Edinburgh, and the servility 
of my plebeian brethren, (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me askance), since I 
returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my spe- 
cies. I have bought a pocket-Milton, which I carry perpetually about n^e, 
in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid 
unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- 
ship, in that great personage — Satan. . . . The many ties of acquaintance 
and friendship I have, or think 1 have, in life — 1 have felt along the lines, 
and, d — n them, they are almost all of them of such frail texture, that I 
am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of 
fortune." 

Among those who now appeared sufficiently ready to court his societjf, 
were the family of Jean Armour. Burns's regard for this affectionate young 
woman had outlived his resentment of her father's disavowal of him in the 
preceding summer ; and from the time of this reconciliation, it is probable 
he looked forward^to a permanent union with the mother of his children. 

Burns at least fancied himself to be busy with serious plans for his fu- 
ture establishment ; and was very naturally disposed to avail himself, as far 
as he could, of the opportunities of travel and observation, which an inter- 
val of leisure might present. Moreover, in spite of his gloomy language, a 
specimen of which has just been quoted, we are not to doubt that he de- 
rived much pleasure from witnessing the extensive popularity of his writ- 
ings, and from the flattering homage he was sure to receive in his own per- 
son in the various districts of his native country ; nor can any one wonder 
that, after the state of high excitement in which he had spent the winter 
and spring, he, fond as he was of his family, and eager to make them par- 
takers in all his good fortune, should have, just at this time, found himself 
incapable of sitting down contentedly for any considerable period together 
in so humble and quiet a circle as that of Mossgiel. His appetite for wan 
j dering appears to have been only sharpened by his Border excursion. After 
j remaining a few days at home, he returned to Edinburgh, and thence pro- 
I ceeded on another short tour, by way of Stirling, to Inverary, and so back 
j again, by Dumbarton and Glasgow, to Mauchline. Of this second excur- 
( sion, no journal has been discovered ; nor do the extracts from his corres- 
pondence, printed by Dr. Currie, appear to be worthy of much notice. In 
one, he briefly describes the West Highlands as a country " where savage 
streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overs})rtad with savage flocks, 
which starvingly support as savage inhabitants :" and in anotner, he gives 
•in account of Jenny (leddes running a race a/ier dirtncr with a Highlander's 
pony — of his dancing and drinking till sunrise at a gentleman's house on 

Loch Lomond; and of other similar matters " 1 have as yet," says he, 

" fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just 
as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, 
I shall somewhere have a farm soon." 

In the course of this tour, Burns visited the mother and sisters of his 
friend, Gavin Hamilton, then residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
in the immediate neighbourhood of the magnificent scenery of Castle Camp- 
bell, and the vale of Devon. Castle Campbell, called otherwise the Castlt 



Ixvi LIFE Oi* ROBERT BURNS 

vf Gloom, is grandly situated in a ^orge of the Ochills, commanding an 
extensive view of the plain of Stirling. This ancient possession of the 
Argyll family was, in some sort, a town-residence of those chieftains in the 
days when the court was usuiiliy held at Stirling, Linlithgow, or Falkland 
The castle was burnt by Montrose, and has never been repaired. The 
Cauldron Linn and Eumblrng Brigg of the Devon lie near Castle Camp- 
bell, on the verge of the plain. He was especially delighted with one oi 
the young ladies ; and, according to his usual custom, celebrated her in 
a song, in which, in opposition to his general custom, there is nothing but 
the respectfulness of admiration. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 

With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair; 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
I Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lihes, 

And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys. 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 

At Harviestonbank, also, the poet first became acquainted with Miss 
Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Hay, to whom one of the most interesting se- 
ries of his letters is addressed. Indeed, with the exception of his letters to 
Mrs. Dunlop, there is, perhaps, no part of his correspondence which may 
be quoted so uniformly to his honour. It was on this expedition that, 
having been visited with a high flow of Jacobite indignation while viewing 
the neglected palace at Stirling, he was imprudent enough to write some 
verses bitterly vituperative of the reigning family on the window of his 
inn. These verses were copied and talked of; and although the next time 
Burns passed through Stirling, he himself broke the pane of glass contain- 
ing them, they were remembered years afterwards to his disadvantage, and 
even danger. — As these verses have never appeared in any edition of his 
works hitheito published in Britain, we present them to our readers as a 
literary curiosity. 

Here once in triumph Stuarts reign'd, 
And laws for Scotia well ordain'd ; 
But now unroof 'd their palace stands; 
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands. 

The injured Stuart line is gone, 

A race outlandish fills the throne ; — 

An idiot race, to honour lost, 

M^ho know them best, despise them most 

The young adies of Harvieston were, according tc Dr. Currie, surprised 
with the calm manner in which Burns contemplated the'r fine scenery on 
Devon water and the Doctor enters into a little dissertation on the subject, 
showing that a man of Burns's lively imagination might probably have form- 
(^d anticipations which the realities of the prospect might rather disappoint 



! i 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixvii 

This is possible enough ; but I suppose few will take it for granted that 
Burns surveyed any scenes either of beauty or of grandeur m ithout emo 
tion, merely because he did not choose to be ecstatic for the benefit ot a 
company of young ladies. Ke was indeed very impatient of interruption 
on such occasions : riding one dark night near ('arron, his companion teased 
him with noisy exclamations of delight and wonder, whenever an opening 
in the wood permitted them to see the magnificent glare of the furnaces ; 
" Look, Burns ! Good Heaven ! look ! look ! what a glorious sight !" 
" Sir," said Burns, clapping spurs to Jenny Geddes, " I would not hok f 
look ! at your bidding, if it were the mouth of hell !" 

Burns spent the month of July at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Dugald Stewart, 
in a letter to Currie, gives some recollections of him as he then appeared : 

" Notwithstanding the various reports I heard during the preceding win- 
ter of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I 
should have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him 
that ever fell under my own observation- He told me indeed himself, that 
the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any 
merit in his temperance. I was, however, somewhat alarmed about the 
effect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he con- 
fessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's cam- 
paign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpi- 
tation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late 
become subject. In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity 
to attend for an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated com- 
pliments to different individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a 
visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well 
as fluently expressed. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the 
marks of some practice in extempore elocution." 

In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of 
Harrowgate, and remained ten days at Harvieston. He was received with 
particular kindness at Ochtertyre, on the Teith, by 'S\t. Ramsay (a friend 
of Blacklock), whose beautiful retreat he enthusiastically admired. His 
host was among the last of those old Scottish Latimsts who began with Bu- 
chanan. Mr. Ramsay, among other eccentricities, had sprinkled the walls 
of his house with Latin inscriptions, some of them highly elegant ; and 
these particularly interested Burns, who asked and obtained copies and 
translations of them. This amiable man (another Monkbarns) was deeply 
read in Scottish antiquities, and the author of some learned essays on the 
elder poetry of his country. His conversation must have delighted any 
man of talents ; and Burns and he were mutually charmed with each other. 
Ramsay advised him strongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama, 
and proposed the Gentle Shepherd as a model : he also urged him to write 
Scottish Georgics, observing that Thomson had by no means exhausted tha^ 
field. He appears to have relished both hints. " But," says Mr. R. " to 
have executed either plan, steadiness and abstraction from company were 
wanting." — Mr. Ramsay thus writes of Burns : — " I have been in the com- | 
pany of many men of genius, some of them poets ; but I never witnessed ; 
such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him. the impulse of the mo- j i 
ment, sparks of celestial fire. 1 never was more delighted, therefore, than j | 
with his company two days tete-a-tete. In a mixed company 1 should have \ \ 
pnade little of him ; for, to use a gamester's phrase, he did not always know I j 



! 



1 i LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
i i 

J when to play off and when, to play on. When I asked him whether the 

I i Edinburgh literati Kad men led his poems by their criticisms — ' Sir,' saio 

i he, ' those gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my country, who «pin 

j ' their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' " 

At Clackmannan Tower, the Poet'i jacobitism procured him a hearty 

1 welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering 

' herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight- 

; hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving as 

I I her toast after dinner, Hooki uncos, away strangers ! — a shepherd's cry 

i : when strange sheep mingle in the flock At Dunfermline the poet betray- 

I ! ed deep emotion, Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Bruce ; but, 

I ' passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the 

I pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the 

; ' cuttyatool, in a parody of the rebuke which he had himself undergone some 

1.^ time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith ot 

I Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend Nicoll on a more 

! \ extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was- ever again to under- 

I I take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and 

I I are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu- 

■ i lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for 

] \ their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques- 

I trian. 

f I *' August 25th, 1 787. — This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for 

I I a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. Nicoll, whose originality ot 

I I humour promises me much entertainment. — Linlithgow. A fertile im- 
proved country is West I.othian. The more elegance and luxury among 
the farmers, I always observe, in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupi- 

'! ; dity of the peasantry. This remark 1 have made all over the Lothians, 

\ I Merse, Roxburgh, &c. ; and for this, among other reasons, I think that a 

! I man of romantic taste, ' a man of feeling,' will be better pleased with the 

j ! poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry of Ayrshire, (peasantry they 

' are all, below the Justice of Peace), than the opulence of a club of Merse 

; : farmers, when he, at the same time, considers the Vandalism of their plough- 

1 I folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, unimproved coun- 

! j try is to me actually more agreeable as a prospect, than a country culti- 

j I vated like a garden.'* 

! ; It was hardly to be expected that Robert Burns should have estimated 

j j the wealth of nations on the principles of a political economist ;. or that 

} \ with him the greatest possible produce, — no matter how derived, — was to 

I I be the paramount principle. But, where the greatness and happiness of a 

I j people are concerned, perhaps the inspirations of the poet may be as safely 

I tak^a for u guide as the inductions of the political economist: — 



I ! 



From scenes like these old Scotia's gi andeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God !'* 
And certea, in fair virtue's heav'niy road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied m arts of hell, in wickedness refined ; 
O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic oil. 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lxi> 

And, O ! may Heav*n their simple lives prevent 

From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowtu and coroneU be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Islr. 

Of Linlithgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude, 
decaj'ed, idle grandeur — charmingly rural retired situation— the old Roya 
Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruin — sweetly situated by the brinl< 
of a loch. Shown the 'oom where the beautiful injured Mary Queen ol 
Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool ol 
repentance, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor 
pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and 
squalid, stuck in a corner of old Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and 
much more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab- 
solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat- 
ters " 

At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — " Here no Scot can pass unin- 
terested. I fancy to myself that I see my gallant countrymen coming over 
the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers ol 
their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding 
more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood- 
thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the 
victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued 'iberty 
and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns's famous ode on the 
battle of Bannockburn. 

At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " described in rhymed This al- 
ludes to the " verses written with a pencil over the mantle-piece of the 
parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely 
English heroics — 

•' Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 
Lone wandering by the hermit s mossy cell ; 
The sweeping tneatre of hanging woods ; 
The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... 
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire .... 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, 
Alisfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointiripnt, in tnese lonely bounds, 
F'nd balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; 
Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan, 
And injured Worth forget ar.d pardon man." 

Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum : — "' Druids* temple, three cir- 
cles of stones the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain- 
mg, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south- 
east — sny prayers on it." 

His notes on Dunkeld and Blair of Athole are as follows: — " Dunneld 
— Breakfast with Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays; a short, stout built, High- 
land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte- 
resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with 
unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret Gow. — Friday — 
ride up Tummel river to l>lair. Fascally, a beautiful romantic nest — wild 
grandeur of the pass of Killikrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone. 
— Blair — sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners oi 
that family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend \\ alker. — Satur 
day — visit the scenes round Blaii- — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." 



I i 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

when to play off and whea to play on. When T asked him whether the 
Edinburgh literati Kad men led his poems by their criticisms- — < Sir,' saio 
he, ' those gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my country, who «pin 
their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' " 

At Clackmannan Tower, the Poet'i jacobitism procured him a hearty 
welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering 
herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight- 
hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving as 
her toast after dinner, Hooki uvcns, away strangers ! — a shepherd's cry 
when strange sheep mingle in the flock At Dunfermline the poet betray- 
ed deep emotion. Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Bruce ; but, 
passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the 
pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the 
cuttyxtool, in a parody o^ the rebuke which he had himself undergone some 
time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith ol 
Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend Nicoll on a more 
extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was- ever again to under- 
take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and 
are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu- 
lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for 
their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques- 
trian. 

*' Angufit 25th, 1787. — This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for 
I I a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. Nicoll, whose originality ot 
I I humour promises me much entertainment. — Linlithgow. A fertile im- 
proved country is West I.othian. The more elegance and luxury among 
the farmers, I always observe, in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupi- 
dity of the peasantry. This remark 1 have made all over the Lothians, 
Merse, Roxburgh, &c. ; and for this, among other reasons, I think that a 
man of romantic taste, ' a man of feeling,' will be better pleased with the 
poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry of Ayrshire, (peasantry they 
are all, below the Justice of Peace), than the opulence of a club of Merse 
farmers, when he, at the same time, considers the Vandalism of their plough- 
folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, unimproved coun- 
try is to me actually more agreeable as a prospect, than a country culti- 
vated like a garden." 

It was hardly to be expected that Robert Burns should have estimated 
the wealth of nations on the principles of a political economist ;. or that 
with him the greatest possible produce, — no matter how derived, — was to 
be the paramount principle. But, where the greatness and happiness of a 
I j people are concerned, perhaps the inspirations of the poet may be as safel^jf 
I tai^Li for u guide as the inductions of the political economist: — 

j From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

! ! That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 

I ! Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

i ; " An honest man's the noblest work of God !" 

! ; And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 

i The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; , 

I What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. 

I , Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 

I ■■ Studied m arts of hell, in wickedness refined ; 

i I O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

I ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent 

j Long may thy fiardy sons of rustic oil, 

Be blest with healtli, and peace, and sweet content ! 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lxi> 

And, O ! may Heav*n their simple lives prevent 

From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowtu and coroneU be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Islr. 

Of Linhthgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude, 
decayed, idle grandeur — charmingly rural retired situation— the old Roya 
Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruin— sweetly situated by the brint 
of a loch. Shown the 'oom where the beautiful injured Mary Queen ol 
Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool ol 
repentance, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor 
pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and 
squalid, stuck in a corner of old Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and 
much more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab- 
solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat- 
ters " 

At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — ♦' Here no Scot can pass unin- 
terested. I fancy to myself that I see my gallant countrymen coming over 
the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers ol 
their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding 
more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood- 
thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the 
victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued 'iberty 
and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns's famous ode on the 
battle of Bannockburn. 

At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " described in rhymed This al- 
ludes to the " verses written with a pencil over the mantle-piece of the 
parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely 
English heroics — 

•' Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 
Lone wandering by the hermit s mossy cell ; 
The sweeping tneatre of hanging woods ; 
The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... 
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire .... 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, 
Alisfortune's lightened steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointn\ent, in tnese lonely bounds, 
F*nd balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; 
Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan, 
And injured Worth forget ar.d pardon man." 

Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum : — '' Druids' temple, three cir^ 
cles of stones the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain- 
mg, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like agate to the south- 
east — sny prayers on it" 

His notes on Dunkeld and Blair of A thole are as follows: — " Dunneld 
— Breakfast with Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays; a short, stout built, High- 
land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte- 
resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with 
unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret Gow. — Friday — 
ride up Tummel river to l>lair. Fascally, a beautiful romantic nest — wild 
grandeur of the pass of Killikrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone. 
— Blair — sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners oi 
that family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend \1 alker. — Satur 
day — risit the scenes round Blaii- — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." 



i ! 



MFE OF ROBERT BURNS 

Mr. Walker, who, as we have seen, formed Burns's acquaintance in 
Edinburgh through Bkicklock, was at this period tutor in the family oi 
Athole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the 
seat of his noble patron are derived : — " On reaching Blair, he sent me no- 
tice of his arrival ;as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I 
hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter 
of introduction, was> from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his ar 
rival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He ac- 
cepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distancCg 
begged I v^^ould in the interval be his guide through the grounds, it was 
already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, view 
of their beauties, which the moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited 
to the state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced 
the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne- 
ver saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic 
hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from 
which there is a noble water -fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, 
and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm ot 
imagination. It was v/ith much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this 
spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. My curiosity was 
great to see how he would conduct himself in company so different from 
what he had been accustomed to. His manner was unembarrassed, plain, 
and firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his own native good 
sense for directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to 
appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to for- 
get a proper respect for the separate species of dignity belonging to each 
He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, 
propriet3^ and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew 
it ^vas ability alone gave him a title to be there. The Duke's fine young 
family attracted much of his admiration; he drank their healths as honest 
men and bonnie lasses, an idea which was much applauded by the company, 
aiid ivith which he has very felicitously closed his poem. Next day I took 
a ride with him through some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- 
bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. As a specimen 
pf his happiness of conception and strength of expression. I will mention a 
emark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time 
a few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and 
while Burns was expressing to me the value he entertained for him, on 
account of his vigorous talents, although they were clouded at times by 
coarseness of manners ; " in short,' he added, " his mind is like his body, 
he has a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a soul." — Much attention was 
paid to Burns both before and after the Duke's return, of which he was 
perfectly sensible, v, ithout being vain ; and at his departure 1 recommended 
to him. as the most appropriate return he could make, to write some des- 
criptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- 
lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the Falls oj 
Bruar, and in a few days I received a letter from Inverness, with the versea 
enclosed," * 

At Blair, Burns first met with Mr. Graham of Fintray, a gentleman to 
whose kindness he was afterwards indebted on more than one important 

* Extract of a letter from Mr. Walker to Mr. Cunningham, dated Perth. 24th OctobeT 
797 



LIFt OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixx 

fXicasion ; and Mr. Walker expresses great regret that he did not remain 
p day or two more, in which case he must have been introduced to Mr. 
Dundas, the first Lord Melville, who was then Treasurer of the Navy, and 
had the chief management of the affairs of Scotland. This statesman was 
but little addicted to literature; still, had such an introduction taken 
place, he might probably have been induced to bestow that consideration 
on the claims of the poet, which, in the absence of any personal acquain- 
tance, Burns's works should have commanded at his hands. 

From Blair, Burns passed " many miles through a wild country, among 
cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till he crossed the 
Spey ; and went down the stream through Strathspey, (so famous in Scot- 
tish music), Badenoch, &c. to Grant Castle, where he spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant ; crossed the country to Fort George, but called by the 
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth, where he saw the identical 
bed in which, tradition says, King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from Fort 
George to Inverness. From Inverness, he went along the Murray Frith to 
Fochabers, taking Culloden Muir and Brodie House in his way. — Thurs- 
day, Came over Culloden Muir — reflections on the field of battle — break- 
fast at Kilraick — old Mrs. Rose — sterling sense, warm heart, strong pas- 
sion, honest pride — all to an uncommon degree — a true chieftain's wife, 
daughter of Clephane — Mrs. Rose junior, a little milder than the mother, 
perhaps owing to her being younger — two young ladies — Miss Rose sung 
two Gaelic songs — ^beautiful and lovely — Miss Sophy Brodie, not very 
beautiful, but most agreeable and amiable— both of them the gentlest, mild- 
est, sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! Brodie 
House to lie — Mr. B. truly polite, but not quite the Highland cordiality. — 
Friday, Cross the Findhorn to Forres — famous stone at Forres — Mr. Bro- 
die tells me the muir where Shakspeare lays Macbeth's witch- meeting, is 
still haunted — that the country folks won't pass by night. — Elgin — vene- 
rable ruins of the abbey, a grander effect at first glance than Melrose, but 
nothing near so beautiful. — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, worthy 
of the noble, the polite, the generous proprietor — the Duke makes me hap- 
pier than ever great man did ; noble, princely, yet mild, condescending, 
and affable — gay and kind — The Duchess charming, witty, kind, and sen- 
sible — God bless them."* 

Burns, who had been much noticed by this noble family when in Edin 
burgh, happened to present himself at Gordon Castle, just at the dinner 
hour, and being invited to take a place at the table, did so, without for the 
moment adverting to the circumstance that his travelling companion had 
been left alone at the inn, in the adjacent village. On remembering this 
soon after dinner, he begged to be allowed to rejoin his friend ; and the 
Duke of Gordon, who now for the first time learned that he was not jour- 
neying alone, immediately proposed to send an invitation to Mr Nicoll tc 
come to the Castle. His Grace's messenger found the haughty school- 
master striding up and down before the inn door, in a state of higR wrath 
and indignation, at what he considered Burns's neglect, and no apologies 
could soften his mood. He had already ordered horses, and the poet find- 
ing that he must choose between the ducal circle and his irritable associ 
ate, at once left Gordon Castle, and repaired to the inn ; whence Nicoll 
and he, in silence and mutual displeasure, pursued their journey along the 

• Extract from Journal. 



rxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

coast of the Murray Frith. The abridgment of Burns's visk at Gordon 
Castle, " was not only," says Mr. Walker, ** a mortifying disappointment, 
but in all probability a seriou? misfortune, as a longer stay among persons 
of such influence, might hav ) begot a permanent intimacy, and on theii 
parts, an active concern for his future advancement." * But this touches 
on a delicate subject which we shall not at present pause to consider. 

Pursuing his journey along the coast, the poet visited successively 
Nairn, Forres, Aberdeen, and Stonehive ; where one of his relations, .Tames 
Burness, writer in Montrose, met him by appointment, and ccnoacted him 
in>.) the circle of his paternal kindred, among whom he spent two or three 
days. When William Burness, his father, abandoned his native dstrict, 
never to uevisit it, he, as he used to tell his children, took a sorrowful fare 
well of his brother on the summit of the last hill from which the roof ol 
their lowly home could be descried ; and the old man appears to have 
ever after kept up an affectionate correspondence with his family. It fell 
to the poet's lot to communicate his father's death to the Kincardineshire 
kindred, and afte that he seems to have maintained the same sort of cor- 
respondence. He now formed a personal acquaintance with these good 
people, and in a letter to his brother Gilbert, we find him describing thenr 
in terms which show the lively interest he took in all their concerns. * 

*' The rest of my stages," says he, " are not worth rehearsing: warm 
as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen his very grave, what 
cared I for fishing towns and fertile carses .^" He arrived once more in 
Auld lleekie, on the IHth of September, having travelled about six hun- 
dred miles in two-and-twenty days — greatly extended his acquaintance 
with his own country, and visited some of its most classical scenery — ob- 
served something of Highland manners, which must have been as interest 
ing as they were novel to him — and strengthened considerably among the 
sturdy Jacobites of the North those political opinions which he at this pe 
riod avowed. 

Of the few poems composed during this Highland tour, we have alread} 
mentioned two or three. While standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch 
Ness, he wrote with his pencil the vigorous couplets — 

"• Among the heathy hills and rugged woods, 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods," &c. 

When at Sir William Murray's of Ochtertyre, he celebrated Miss Murray 
of Lintrose, commonly called " The Flower of Sutherland," in the Song— 

" Blythe, blythe, and merry was she, 

} Blvthe was she but and ben," &c. 
I 

I And the verses On Scaring some Wildfowl on Loch Turity — 

1- 

j " Why, ye tenants of the lake, 

[ «, For me your wat'ry haunts forsake.'" &c. 

j were composed while under the same roof. These last, e>cept perhapi 

{ Bruar Water, are the best that he added to his collection during the wan- 

I derings of the summer. But in Burns's subsequent productions, we find 

! many traces t the delight with which he had contemplated nature in these 

I alpine regions 

I 

1 • General Correspoi dence. 



LIFJi OF ROBERT BURNS. ixxiL 

The poet once more visited his family at Mossgiel, and Mr. INTiIler at 
Dalswinton, ere the winter set in ; and on more leisurely examination of 
that gentleman's estate, we find him writing as if he had all but decidea 
to become his tenant on the farm of Elliesland, It was not, however, un- 
til he had for the third time visited Dumfriesshire, in March 1788, that a 
bargain w£»s actually concluded. More than half of the intervening 
months m ere spent in Edinburgh, n-here Burns found, or fancied that his 
presence was necessary for the satisfactory completion of his affairs with 
the booksellers. It seems to be clear enough that one great object was the 
society of his jovial intimates in the capital. Nor was he without the 
amusement of a little romance to fill up what vacant hours they left him. 
He lodged tliat winter in Bristo Street, on purpose to be near a beautiful 
widow — the same to whom he addressed the song, 

*' Clarinda, mistress of my soul," &c. 

and a series of prose epistles, which have been separately published, and 
which present more instances of bad taste, bomb'astic language, and fulsome 
sentiment, than could be produced from all his writings besides. 

At this time the publication called Johnsons Museum of Scottish Song 
was going on in Edinburgh ; and the editor appears to have early prevailed on 
Burns to give him his assistance in the arrangement of his materials. Though 
Green grow the rashes is the only song, entirely his, which appears in the 
first volume, published in 1787, many of the old ballads hicluded in that 
volume bear traces of his hand ; but in the second volume, which appeared 
in March 1788, we find no fewer than five songs by Burns ; two that have 
been already mentioned, * and three far better than them, viz. Thenim 
Mcnzies" honug Mary ; that grand lyric, 

" Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 
The wretch's destiny, 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows tree ;" 

both of which performances bespeak the recent impressions of his Highland 
visit ; and, lastly. Whistle and 111 come to yoUy my lad. Burns had been 
from his youth upwards an enthusiastic lover of the old minstrelsy and 
music of his country ; but he now studied both subjects with far better op- 
portunities and appliances than he could have commanded previously ; and 
it is from this time that we must date his ambition to transmit his own 
poetry to posterity, in eternal association with those exquisite airs which 
had hitherto, in far too many instances, been married to verses that did 
not deserve to be immortal. It is well known that from this time Burns 
composed very few pieces but songs ; and whether we ought or not to re- 
gret that such was the case, must depend on the estimate we make of his 
songs as compared with his other poems ; a point on which critics are to this 
hour divided, and on which their descendants are not very like y to agree. 
Mr. Walker, who is one of those that lament Burns's comparative derelic- 
tion of the species of composition which he most cultivated in the early 
days of his inspiration, suggests very sensibly, that if Burns had not taken 
to song-writing, he would probably have written little or nothing amidst 
the various temptations to company and dissipation which now and hence- 
forth surrounded him — to say nothing of the active duties of life in whicb 

• * riarinda,' and " How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devoi." 



(XXIV LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 

be was at lengtn about to be engaged. Burns was present, on the 3 1st ol 
December, at a dinner to celebrate the birth-day of the unfortunate Prince 
Charles Edward IStuart, and produced on the occasion an ode, part of which 
Dr. Currie has preserved. The specimen will not induce any regret that 
the remainder of the piece has been suppressed. It appears to be a u louth- 
ing rhapsody — far, far diiferent indeed from the Chevalier s Lament, which 
the poet composed some months afterwards, with probably the tithe o\ 
the effort, while riding alone " through a track of melancholy muirs be- 
tween Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday." * 

For six weeks of the time that Burns spent this year in Edinburgh, he 
was confined to his room, in consequence of an overturn m a hackney coach. 
" Here 1 am," he writes, " under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised 
limb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vymg with the livid 
horrors preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was 
the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodi- 
ly constitution, hell, and myselfj have formed a quadruple alliance to gua- 
rantee the other. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am go/- 
half w^ay through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is 
really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him 
to get an 8vo. Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind 
it with all the elegance of his craft." f — In another letter, which opens gaily 
enough, we find him reverting to the same prevaihng darkness of mood. 
" I can t say I am altogether at my ease when 1 see any where in my path 
that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty, attended as he always 
is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt. But I have sturdily 
withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day, and still my motto is 1 
DARE. My worst enemy is moi-meme. There are just two creatures that 
I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or 
an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish 
without enjoyment ; the other has neither wish nor fear."' \ — One more 
specimen may be sufficient. || " These have been six horrible M^eeks. 
Anguish and low spirits have made me unfit to read, write, or think. 1 have 
a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer does a com- 
mission ; for 1 would not take in any poor ignorant wretch by selling out. 
Lately, I was a sixpenny private, and God knows a miserable soldier enough : 
now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more conspicuously 
wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though 1 do not want bravery for 
the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice." 

It seems impossible to doubt that Burns had in fact lingered in Edin- 
burgh, in the hope that, to use a vague but sufficiently expressive phrase, 
something would be done for him. He visited and revisited a farm, — talked 
and wrote about " having a fortune at the plough-tail," and so forth ; but 
all the while murished, and assuredly it would have been most strange if 
he had not, the fond dream that the admiration of his country would ere 
bng present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and coi - 
finement gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side 
of his prospects , and the letters which we have queried may ttach those 
•fho envy the powers and the fame of genius, to paui e for a moment ovey 

• General Correspondence, No. 46 

f Reliques, p. 43. J Ibid- p 44. 

U General (Correspondence, No. 43. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ijfxv 

the annals of literature, and think what superior capabilities of mi.'tfr/ have 
been, in the great majority of cases, interwoven with the possession of 
those very talents, from which all but their possessors derive unniingled 
gratification. Burns's distresses, however, were to be still farther aggravated. 
While still under the hands of his surgeon, he received intelligence from 
Mauchline that his intimacy with Jean Armour had once more exposed 
her to the reproaches of her family. The father sternly and at once turne(^ 
her out of doors ; and Burns, unable to walk across his room, had to wriu 
to his friends in Mauchline to procure shelter for his children, and for hei 
whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, 
written on hearing of this ncM' misfortune, he says, " ' I wish I were dead, 
hit I'm no like to die' 1 fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for 
the best. You must not desert me. Your friendship I think I can count 
on, though 1 should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in 
life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Se- 
riously, though, life at present presents me with but a melancholy path 

But my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on." * 

it seems to have been now that Burns at last screwed up his courage to 
solicit the active interference in his bFiialf of the Earl of Glencairn. The 
letter is a brief one. Burns could iil endure this novel attitude, and he 
rushed at once to his request. " I wish," says he, " to get into the excise. 
I am told your Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com- 
missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, which have already 
rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask 
that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie 
of home, that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters 
flora destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest 

gratitude My heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any 

other of The Great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am 
ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of sohcita- 
tion ; and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as ol 
the cold denial." f It would be hard to think that this letter was coldly or 
negligently received ; on the contrary, we know that Burns's gratitude to 
Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. But the excise appointment 
which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble patron's 
influence. Mr. Alexander Wood, surgeon, (still affectionately remembered 
in Edinburgh as " kind old Sandy Wood,") happening to hear Burns, while 
his patient, mention the object of his wishes, went immediately, without 
dropping any hint of his intention, and communicated the state of the 
poet's case to Mr. Graham of Fintray, one of the commissioners of excise, 
who had met Burns at the Duke of Athole's in the autumn, and who im- 
mediately had the poet's name put on the roll. — " I have chosen this, my 
dear friend," (thus wrote Burns to Mrs. Dunlop), " after mature delibera- 
tion. The question is not at what door of Fortune's palace shall we enter 
in : but what doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to get any thing 
to do. 1 wanted un hut, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got 
this without any hanging on or mortifying solicitation. It is immediate 
bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my 
existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the 
coinmissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my 
firm friends." J 
• Reliques, p. 48. f General Con espondence, No. 40. X Reliques, p. 60 



vxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his con 
fiiiement with his bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he ' ^^ ahnses very heartilj 
in his letters to his friends in Ayrshire. The publisher's accounts, however, 
when they were at last made up, mus* have given the impatient author a 
very agreeable surprise ; for, in his letter above quoted, to Lord Glencairn, 
we find him expressing his hopes that the gross profits of his book might 
amount to " better thsin ' 200," whereas, on the day of settling with Mi 
Creech, he found himself in possession of i 500, if not of ct600. Mr. Ni 
coll, the most intimate friend Burns had, writes to Mr John Lewars, ex- 
cise officer at Dumfries, immediately on hearing of the poet's death, — •'• He 
certainly told me that he received i (iOO for the first Edinburgh edition, and 
£100 afterwards for the copyright." — Dr. Currie states the gross product 
of Creech's edition at ' 500, and Burns himself, in one of his printed let- 
ters, at 4400 only. Nicoll hints, in the letter already referred to, that 
Burns had contracted debts while in Edinburgh, which he might not wish 
to avow on all occasions ; and if we are to believe this — and, as is probablcj 
the expense of printing the subscription edition, should, moreover, be de- 
ducted from the -i 1 00 stated by Mr. Nicoll — the apparent contradictions 
in these stories may be pretty nearly reconciled. There appears to be 
reason for thinking that Creech subsequently paid more than a: 100 for the 
copyright. If he did not, how came Burns to realize, as Currie states it 
at the end of his Memoir, " nearly 1900 in all by his poems?" 

This supply came truly in the hour of need ; and it seems to have ele- 
vated his spirits greatly, and given him for the time a new stock of confi- 
dence ; for he now resumed immediately his purpose of taking Mr. Miller's 
farm, retaining his excise commission in his pocket as a dernier resort, to be 
made use of only should some reverse of fortune come upon him. His first 
act, however, was to relieve his brother from his difficulties, by advancing 
.:^M80 or 4: 200, to assist him in the management of Mossgiel. " I give my- 
self no airs on this," he generously says, in a letter to Dr. Moore, " for it 
was mere selfishness on my part. I was conscious that the wrong scale of 
the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that the throwing a 
little filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favouT) migh» 
help .3 sracoth matters at the grand recko7iing" * 

* (jtenend Correspo&dencc, ^^^ m. 



CHAPTER VTl. 

' ^TSTENTS —- 3farries -— Announcements, f apologeti col ) , of the event — Remaiks^-^Betomn 
( 788) Farmer at Elliesland, on the Nith, in a romantic vicinity ^ six miles from Dumfries— • 
The Muse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a varied and extensive literary corre- 
spondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon the correspondence — Sketch of his person 
and habits at this period by a brother poet, who shows cause against success in farming— 
The untoivard conjunction of Ganger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the 
calls of adm.iring visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra ,^'nvivial life — Leaves Ellieslana 
0791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries. 



** To make a happy fireside clime 
For weans and wife— 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life." • 

Burns, as soon as his bruised limb was able for a journey, went to Moss- 
giel, and went through the ceremony of a Justice-of Peace marriage with 
Jean Armour, in the writing-chambers of his friend Gavin Hamilton. He 
then crossed the country to Dalswinton, and concluded his bargain with 
Mr. Miller as to the farm of Elliesland, on terms which must undoubtedly 
have been considered by both parties, as highly favourable to the poet ; 
they were indeed fixed by two of Burns's own friends, who accompanied 
him for that purpose from Ayrshire. The lease was for four successive 
terms, of nineteen years each, — in all seventy six years ; the rent for the 
first three years and crops .1'5() ; during the remainder of the period i;70 
per annum. Mr. Miller bound himself to defray the expense of any plan- 
tations which Burns might please to make on the banks of the river ; and, 
the farm-house and offices being in a delapidated condition, the new tenant 
was to receive ,t'300 fiom the proprietor, for the erection of suitable build- 
ings. Burns entered on possession of his farm at Whitsuntide 1788, but 
the necessary rebuilding of the house prevented his removing Mrs. Burns 
thither until the season was far advanced. He had, moreover, to qualify 
himself for holding his excise commission by six weeks' attendance on the 
business of that profession at Ayr. From these circumstances, he led all 
the summer a wandering and unsettled life, and Dr. Currie mentions this 
as one of his chief misfortunes. The poet, as he says, was continually rid- 
ing between Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire, and often spending a night on 
the road, " sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions he had 
formed." What these resolutions were, the poet himself shall tell us. On 
the third day of his residence at Elliesland, he thus writes to Mr. Ainslie : 
— " 1 have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms, 
among the light-horse, the piquet guards of fancy, a kind of hussars and 
Highlanders of the brain ; but 1 am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy 
battalions. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave 
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding cor> 



Ixxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

trivance. . . . Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situatJon e- 
specting a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step 1 have 
taken is vastly for my happiness." * 

To all his friends he expresses himself in terms of similar satisfaction in 
regard to his marriage- '" Your surmise, Madam," he writes to Mrs. Dun- 
lop, " is just I am indeed a husband. I found a once miich-loved, and 
still mu»,h-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the 
naked elements, but as I enabled her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no 
sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or misery. The most placid 
goodnature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, 
set off to the best advantige by a more than commonly handsome figure ; 
these, 1 think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should ne- 
ver have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testam(mt, 

nor danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding 

To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger ; my preservative from the 
first, is tne most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, and 
her attachment to me ; my antidote against the last, is my long and oeep- 
rooted aftection for her. In housewife matters, of aptness to learn, and 
activity to execute, she io eminently mistress, and during my absence in 
Nithsdale, she is regularly and constantly an apprentice to my mother and 

sisters in their dairy, and other rural business You are right, 

that a bachelor state would have ensured me more friends ; but from a 
cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my own 
mind, and unmistrustmg confidence in approaching my God, would p^ldona 
have been of the number." f 

Some months later he tells Miss Chalmers that his marriage " was not, 
perhaps, in consequence of the attachment of romance," — (he is addressing 
a young lady), — " but,'' he continues, " I have no cause to repent it. If 
[ have not got polite taliie, modish manners, and fashionable dress, 1 am not 
sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school affec- 
tation ; and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the 
soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the country. Mrs. Burns 
oelieves as firmly as her creed, that 1 am le plus be I esprit et lephis honnete 
\omme in the universe ; although she scarcely ever, in her life, except the 
Scriptures and the Psalms of David in Metre, spent five minutes together 
on either prose or rerse — I must except also a certain late publication of 
Scots poems, which she nas perused very devoutly, and all the ballads of 
the country, as she has (O the partial lover, you will say), the finest 
woodnote-wild I ever heard." — It was during this honeymoon, as he calls 
it, while chiefly resident in a miserable hovel at Eiliesland, J and only 
occasionally spending a day or two in Ayrshire, that he wrote the beattiful 
song : II 

*' Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, the lassie I lo'e best; 
There wildwoods grow, and rivers rcw, and niony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my Jean. 

O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, bring hame the laden bees, 
And biing the lassie back to me, that's aye sae neat and clean-; 
Ae blink o' her wad banish care, sae lovely is my Jean." 

• Reliques, p. 63. -I* See General" Correspondence. No. 63 ; and Relir ues, p. M 

t Reliques, p. 76. |i Ibid, p 273. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxix 

One of Bums's letters, written not long after this, contains a passage strong- 
ly marked with his haughtiness of character. " I have escaped," says he, 
" the fantastic caprice, the apish affectation, with all the other blessed 
boarding-school acquirements wh'ich are sometimes to be found among fe- 
males of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the 
would-be gentry."* 

" A discerning reader," says Mr. Walker, <' will perceive that the let- 
ters in which he announces his marriage to some of his most respected cor- 
respondents, are wTitten in that state when the mind is pained by reflect- 
ing on an irnwelcome step, and finds relief to itself in seeking arguments 
to justify the deed, ana essen its disadvantages in the opinion of others." f 
I confess I am not able to discern any traces of this kind of feeling in any 
of Burns's letters on this interesting and important occasion. The Rev. 
Hamilton Paul takes an original view of this business : — " Much praise," 
says he, •' has been lavished on Burns for renewing his engagement with 
Jean when in the blaze of his fame. . . The praise is misplaced. We 
do not think a man entitled to credit or commendation for doing what the 
law could compel him to perform. Burns was in reality a married man, 
and it is truly ludicrous to hear him, aware as he must have been, of the in- 
dissoluble power of the obligation, though every document was destroyed, 
talking of himself as a bachelor." \ There is no justice in these remarks. 
It is very true, that, by a merciful fiction of the law of Scotland, the fe- 
male, in Miss Armour's condition, \vho produces a written promise of mar- 
riage, is considered as having furnished evidence of an irregular marriage 
having taken place between her and her lover ; but in this case the female 
herself had destroyed the document, and lived for many months not only 
not assuming, but rejecting the character of Burns's wife ; and had she, un- 
der such circumstances, attempted to establish a marriage, with no docu- 
ment in her hand, and with no parole evidence to show that any such do- 
cument had ever existed, to say nothing of proving its exact tenor, but 
that of her own father, It is clear that no ecclesiastical court in the world 
could have failed to decide against her. So far from Burns's having all 
along regarded her as his wife, it is extremely doubtful whether she had 
ever for one moment considered him as actually her husband, until he de- 
clared the marriage of 1788. Burns did no more than justice as well as 
honour demanded ; but the act was one which no human tribunal could 
have compelled him to perform. 

To return to our story, t^urns complains sadly of his solitary condition, 
when living in the only hovel that he found extant on his farm. *' 1 am," 
says he, (September 9th) " busy with my harvest, but for all that most 
pleasurable part of life called social intercourse, I am here at the very el- 
bow of exisience. The only things that are to be found in this country in 
any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose they only know 
in graces, &c., and the value oi' these they estimate as they do the ir plaid- 
ing webs, by the ell. As for the muses, they have as much idea of a rhino- 
ceros as of a poet." And in another letter (September 16th) he says 
" This hovel that I shelter in while occasionally here, is pervious to every 
blast that blows, and every shower that falls, and I am only preserved 
from being chilled to death by being suffocated by smoke. You will be 
pleased to bear that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day aftei 

* Ger. eral Correspondence, No. 55. f Morrison, vol. i. p. Ixxxvii. 

J Pai I's Life of Burns, p. 45. 



ixxy LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

my rea|ters." His ouse, however, did not take much time in building, 
nor had he reason to complain of want of society long. He brought his 
vrife home to Elliesland about the end of November ; and few housekeepers 
start wi th a larger provision of young mouths to feed than this couple. Mrs. 
Burns had lain in this autumn, for the second time, of twins, and I sup- 
pose " sonsy, smirking, dear-bought Bess,"* accompanied her younger bro- 
thers and sisters from Mossgiel. I'>om that quarter also Burns brought a 
whole establishment of servants, male and female, who, of course, as was 
then the universal custom amongst the small farmers, both of the west and 
of the south of Scotland, partook, at the sauie table, of the same fare with 
their master and mistress. 

Elliesland is beautifully situated on the banks of the Nith, about six miles 
above Dumfries, exactly opposite to the house of Dalswinton, of those noble 
woods and gardens amidst which Burns's landlord, the ingenious Mr. Pa- 
trick Miller, found relaxation from the scientific studies and researches in 
which he so greatly excelled. On the Dalswinton side, the river washes 
lawns and groves ; but over against these the bank rises into a long red 
scaur, of considerable height, along the verge of which, where the bare 
shingle of the precipice all but overhangs the stream, Burns had his favou- 
rite walk, and might now be seen striding alone, early and late, especially 
when the winds were loud, and the waters below him swollen and turbu- 
lent. For he was one of those that enjoy nature most in the more serious 
and severe of her aspects ; and throughout his poetry, for one allusion 
to the liveliness of spring, or the splendour of summer, it would be eas;y 
to point out twenty in which he records the solemn delight with which he 
contemplated the melancholy grandeur of autumn, or the savage gloom ol 
winter ; and he has himself told us, that it was his custom " to take a 
gloamin' shot at the muses." 

The poet was accustomed to say, that the most happy period cf his life 
was the first winter he spent at Elliesland, — for the first time under a roof 
of his own — with his wife and children about him — and in spite of oc- 
casional lapses into the melancholy which had haunted his youth, looking* 
forward to a life of well-regulated, and not ill-rewarded, industry. It is 
known that he welcomed his wife to her rooftree at Elliesland in the song, 

" I hae a wife o' mine ain, I'll partake wi' naebody ; 
III tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody; 
1 hae a penny to spend — there —thanks to naebody ; 
I hae naething to lend — Fll borrow frae naebody." 

In commenting on this " little lively lucky song," as he well calls it, Mr. A 
Cunningham says, " Burns had built his house, he had committed his 
seed-corn to the ground, he was in the prime, ubj the morning of life — 
health, and strength, and agricultural skill were on his side — his genius 
had been acknowledged by his country, and rewarded by a subscription, 
more extensive than any Scottish poet ever received before ; no wonder, 
therefore, that he broke out into voluntary song, expressive of his sense ot 
importance and independence." 

Burns, in his letters of the year 1 789, maxes many apologies for doing 
but little in his poetical vocation ; his farm, without doubt, occupied much 
of his attention, but the want of social intercourse, of which he complained 
on his fii^t arrival in Nithsdale, had by this time totally disappeared. Or 

• PoEi'iCAL Ikventory to Mr. Aiken, February 1786* 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxj 

the contrary, his company was courted eagerly, not only by his brother- 
farmers, but by the neighbouring gentry of all classes ; and now, too, for 
the first time, he began to be visited continually in his own house by curi- 
ous travellers of all sorts, who did not consider, any more than the gene- 
rous poet himself, that an extensive practice of hospitality must cost more 
time than he ought to have had, and far more money than he ever had, at 
his disposal. Meantime, he was not wholly regardless of the muses ; for 
in addition to some pieces which we have already had occasion to notice, 
he contributed to this year's Museum, The Thames flows 'proudly to th^ 
Sea ; The lazy mist hangs, Sfc. ; The day returns^ my bosom hums ; Tarn 
Glen, (one of the best of his humorous songs) ; the splendid lyric, Go 
fetch to me a pint of ivine, and My heart's in the Hielands, (in both of which, 
however, he adopted some lines of ancient songs to the same tunes); John 
Anderson, in part also a rifacciamenfo ; the best of all his Bacchanalian 
pieces, Willie brewed a peck o maut, written in celebration of a festive meet- 
ing at the country residence, in Dumfriesshire, of his friend Mr. Nicoll of 
the High School ; and lastly, that noblest of all his ballads, To Mary in 
Heaven. This celebrated poem was, it is on all hands admitted, composed 
by Burns in September 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he 
heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell ; but Mr. Cromek 
has thought fit to dress up the story with circumstances which did not oc- 
cur. Mrs. Burns, the only person who could appeal to personal recollec- 
tion on this occasion, and whose recollections of all circumstances con- 
nected with the history of her husband's poems, are represented as being 
remarkably distinct and vivid, gives what may at first appear a more pro- 
saic edition of the histcr}'. * According to her. Burns spent that day, 
though labouring under cold, in the usual work of his harvest, and appa- 
rently in excellent spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to 
grow " very sad about something," and at length wandered out into the 
barn-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed him, 
entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to return 
to the fireside. On being again and again requested to do so, he always 
promised compliance — but still remained where he was, striding up and 
down slowly, and contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and 
starry. At last Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw, with 
his eyes fixed on a beautiful planet " that shone like another moon ;" and 
prevailed on him to come in. He immediately on entering the house, called 
for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, with aF be ease of one 
copying from memory, the sublime and pathetic verses- 

* Thou lingering star with lessening ray, 

That lovest to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O J\lary, dear departed shade, 

M'here is thy place of blissful rest ; 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid, 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?'* &c. 

The Mother's Lament for her Son, and Inscription in an Hermitage m 
Nifhsdale, were alsr^ written this year. From the time when Burns settled 
himself in Dumfriesshire, he appears to have conducted with much care 
the extensive correspondence in which his celebrity had engaged him. The 

• I ow« these particulars to JMr. M'Diarmid, the able editor of che Dumfries Courier, and 
brother of the lamented author of " Lives of British tetatesmen." 



xxxil LIFE OF ROBEFiT BURNS. 

etters tliai passed between him and his brother Gilbert, are among rile 
most precious of the collection. That the brothers had entire knowledge 
of and confidence in each other, no one can doubt ; and the plain manly 
affectionate language in which they both write, is truly honourable to them, 
and It "he parents that reared them. " Dear Brother," writes Gilbert^ 
January 1st, 1789, " I have just finished my new-year's-day breakfast in 
the usual form, which naturally makes me call to mind the days of former 
years, and the society in which we used to begin them ; and when I look 
at our family vicissitudes, ' through the dark postern of time long elapsed, 
I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how good the God ot 
seasons is to us ; and that, however some clouds may seem to lour over 
the portion of time before us, we have great reason to hope that all will 
turn out well." 

It was on the same new-year's-day that Burns himself addressed to Mrs 
Dunlop a letter, part of which is here transcribed. It is dated Elliesland, 
New-year-day morning, 17 89, and certainly cannot be read too often : — i 
" This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I 
came under the apostle James's description! — the prayer of a righteous man 
avaikth much. In that case, madam, you should welcome in a year full ot 
blessings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoy- 
ment, should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste, 
should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that 1 approve or 
set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking 
in on that habituated routine of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce 
our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, 
to a state very little superior to mere machinery. This day, — the first 
Sunday of May, — a breezy, blue-skyed moon sometime about the begin- 
ning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end of autumn ; 
these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. 

" 1 believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, ' The 
Vision of Mirza ;' a piece that struck my young fancy before I was capable 
of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : ' On the 5th day of the moon, 
which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after 
having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended 
the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the resf of the day in meditation . 
and prayer.' We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or 
structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in 
them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck 
with that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- 
pression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the 
mountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- 
ding-birch, and the hoary hav/thorn, that I view and hang over with par- 
ticular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a 
summer nDon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an 
autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm 
of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be ow 
ing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the MoWsltv harp, passive, 
takes the impression of the passing accident ? Or do these workings argue 
something within us above the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to such 
proofs of those awful and important realities — a God that made all things 
. — man's immaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or woe be 
yond death and the erave." 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. .xxxifl i i 

Pew, ii, is to be hoped, can read such things as these without delight ; ! ; 
none surely, that taste the elevated pleasure they are calculated to in> ! | 
spire can turn from them to the well-known issue of Burns's history, with- ; | 
out being afflicted. The " golden days" of Elliesland, as Dr. Gurrie justl}' ! i 
calls them, were not destined to be many. Burns's farming speculations ; ! 
once more failed ; and he himself seems to have been aware that such was ! i 
likely to be the case ere he had given the business many months' trial ; for, I i 
ere the autumn of 1 788 was over, he applied to his patron, Mr. Graham of 
Fintray, for actual em)>loyment as an exciseman, and was accordingly ap- 
pointed to do duty, in that capacity. In the district where his lands were 
situated. His income, as a revenue officer, was at first only ilSh ; it by 
and by rose to ' oO ; and sometimes was ' 70. These pounds were hardly 
earned, since the duties of his new calling necessarily withdrew him very 
often from the farm, which needed his utmost attention, and exposed him, 
which was still worse, to innumerable temptations of the kind he was least 
likely to resist. 

I have now the satisfaction of presenting the reader with some particu- 
lars of this part of Burns's history, derived from a source which every | j 
lover of Scotland and Scottish poetry must be prepared to hear mentioned 
with respect. Jt happened that at the time when our poet went to Niths 
dale, the fkther of Mr. Allan Cunningham was steward on the estate of 
Dalswinton : he was as all who have read the writings of his sons will 
readily believe, a man of remarkable talents and attainments : he was a 
wise and good man ; a devout admirer of Burns's genius ; and one of those 
sober neighbours who in vain strove, by advice and warning, to arrest the 
poet in the downhill path, towards which a thousand seductions were per- 
petually drawing him. Mr. xAllan Cunningham was, of course, almost a 
child when he first saw Burns ; but, in what he has to say on this subject, 
we may be sure we are hearing the substance of his benevolent and saga- 
cious father's observations and reflections. His own boyish recollections 
of the poet's personal appearance and demeanour will, however, be read 
with interest. " I was ver}^ young," says Allan Cunningham, " when I 
first saw Burns. He came to see my father ; and their conversation turned 
partly on farming, partly on poetry, in both of which my father had taste 
and skill. Burns had just come to Nithsdale ; and I think he appeared a 
shade more swarth}^ than he does in Nasmyth's picture, and at least ten years 
older than he really was at the time. His face was deeply marked by 
thought, and the habitual expression Intensely melancholy. His frame was 
very muscular and well proportioned, though he had a short neck, and 
something of a ploughman's stoop : he was strong, and proud of his strength 
I saw him one evening match himself with a number of masons ; and out 
of five-and twenty practised hands, the most vigorous young men in the 
parish, there was only one that could lift the same weight as Burns He 
had a very manly face, and a very melancholy look ; but on the coming ot 
those he esteemed, his looks brightened up, and his whole face beamed 
with affection and genius. His voice was very musical. 1 once heard 
him read Tarn o Shunter. I think I hear him now. His fine manly voice 
followed all the undulations of the sense, and expressed as well as his ge- 
nius had done, the pathos and humour, the horrible and the awful, of tha+ 
Wonderful performance. Asa man feels, so will he write; and in propor- 
tion as he bjmpathizes with his author, so will he read him with grace and 



XNxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

" I said that Burns and my father conversed about poetrji and farming 
The poet had newly taken possession of his farm of Eihesland, — the masons 
VTere busy building his house, — the applause of the world was with him, 
and a little of its money in his pockety — in short, he had found a resting- 
place at last. He spoke with great delight about the excellence of his 
farm, and particularly about the beauty of the situation. ' Yes,' my fatheu 
said, ' the walks on the river bank are fine, and you will see from your win- 
dows some miles of the Nith ; but you will also see several farms of fine 
rich holm, * any ons of which you might have had. You have made a 
poet's choice, rather than a farmer's.' If Burns had much of a farmer's 
skill, he had little of a farmer's prudence and economy. I once inquired 
of James Corrie, a sagacious old farmer, whose ground marched with Ellies- 
Idnd, the cause of the poet's failure. ' Faith,' said he, * how could he miss 
but fail, when his servants ate the bread as fast as it was baked? I don't 
mean figuratively, I mean literally. Consider a little. At that time close 
economy was necessary to have enabled a man to clear twent} pounds a- 
year by Elliesland. Now, Burns's own handy work was out of the ques- 
tion : he neither ploughed, nor sowed, nor reaped, at least like a hard- 
ivorking farmer ; and then he had a bevy of servants from Ayrshire. The 
lasses did nothing but bake bread, and the lads sat by the fireside, and ate 
it warm with ale. Waste of time and consumption of food would soon 
reach to twenty pounds a-year.' " 

" The truth of the case," says Mr. Cunningham, in another letter with 
which he has favoured me, " the truth is, that if Robert Burns liked his 
farm, it was more for the beauty of the situation than for the lc:bours which 
it demanded. He was too wayward to attend to the stated duties of a 
husbandman, and too impatient to wait till the ground returned in gain the 
cultivation he bestowed upon it. The condition of a farmer, a Nithsdale 
one, I mean, was then very humble His one-story house had a covering 
of straw, and a clay floor ; the furniture was from the hai\ds of a country 
carpenter ; and, between the roof and floor, there seldom intervened a 
smoother ceiling than of rough rods and grassy turf — while a huge lang-settle 
of black oak for himself, and a carved arm chair for his wife, were the only- 
matters out of keeping with the homely looks of his residence. He took 
all his meals in his own kitchen, and presided regularly among his childrec 
and domestics He performed family worship every evening — except dur- 
ing the hurry of harvest, when that duty was perhaps limited to Saturday 
night. A few religious books, two or three favourite poets, the history oi 
his country, and his Bible, aided him in forming the minds and manners oi 
the family. To domestic education, Scotland owes as much as to the care 
3f her clergy, and the excellence of her parish schools. 

'' The picture out of doors was less interesting. The grouncj from which 
the farmer sought support, was generally in a very moderate state of culti- 
vation. The implements with which he tilled his land were primitive and 
clumsy, and his own knowledge of the management of crops exceedingly 
limited. He plodded on in the regular slothful routine of his ancestors ; 

! he rooted out no bushes, he dug up no stones ; he drained not, neither did 
he enclose ; and weeds obtained then full share of the dung and the lime, 

: which he bestowed more like a medicine than a meal on his soil. His 
plough was the rude old Scotch one ; his harrows had as often teeth M 

I • Holvi is flat, rich meadow land, intervening between a stream and the general elevatiOB 
j sf the adjoin ng country. 



1 I 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ixxx : 

<rood as of iron ; his carts were heavy and low-wheeled, or were, riicre 
properly speaking, tumbler-carts, so called to distinguish them from trail 
carts, both of which were in common use. On these rude carriages his 
manure was taken to the field, and his crop brought home. The farmer 
himself corresponded in all respects with his imperfect instruments His 
poverty secured him from risking costly experiments ; and his hatred o! 
innovation made him entrench himself behind a breast-work of old maxims 
and rustic saws, which he interpreted as oiacles delivered against i'vproce- 
ment. With ground in such condition, with tools so unHt, and with know- 
ledge 50 imperfect, he sometimes succeeded in wi-inging a iew hundred 
pouni .s Scots from the farm he occupied. Such was generally the state of 
agriculture when l^urns came to Nithsdale. I know not how far his own 
skill was equal to the task of improvement — his trial was short and unfor- 
tunate An important change soon took place, by which he was not fated 
to profit ; he had not the foresight to see its approach, nor, probably, the 
fortitude to await its coming. 

-'In the year 1 7!'0, much of the ground in Nithsdale was leased at seven, 
and ten, and fifteen shillings per acre ; and the farmer, in his person and 
his house, differed little from the peasants and mechanics around him. He 
would have thought his daughter wedded in her degree, had she married a 
joiner or a mason ; and at kirk or market, all men beneath the rank of a 
" portioner" of the soil mingled together, equals in appearance and impor- 
tance. But the war which soon commenced, gave a decided impulse to 
agriculture ; the army and navy consumed largely ; corn rose in demand ; 
the price augmented ; more land was called into cultivation ; and, as leases 
expired, the proprietors improved the grounds, built better houses, enlarg- 
ed the rents ; and the farmer was soon borne on the wings of sudden wealth 
above his original condition. His house obtained a slated roof, sash-windows, 
carpeted floors, plastered walls, and even began to exchange the hanks of 
yarn with which it was formerly hung, for paintings and pianofortes. He 
laid aside his coat of home-made cloth ; he retired from his seat among his 
servants ; he — I am grieved to mention it — gave up family worship as a 
thing unfashionable, and became a kind of rustic gentleman, v/ho rode a blood 
horse, and galloped home on market nights at the peril of his own neck, and 
to the terror of every modest pedestrian. When a change like this took 
olace, and a farmer could, with a dozen years' industry, be able to purchase 
the land he rented — which many were, and many did — the same, or a still 
more profitable change might have happened with respect to Elliesland ; 
and Burns, had J^e stuck by his lease and his plough, would, in all human 
possibility, have found the independence which he sought, and sought in 
vain, frarn the coldness and parsimony of mankind." 

Trlr. Cunningham sums up his reminiscences of Burns at Elliesland m 
these terms : — " During the prosperity of his farm, my father often said 
that Burnt, conducted himself wisely, and like one anxious for his name as 
a man, and his fame as a poet. He went to Dunscore Kirk on Sunday, 
though he expressed oftener than once his dislike to the stern Calvinisin ol 
that strict old divine, Mr. Kirkpatrick ; — he assisted in forming a reading 
3lub ; and at weddings and house-heatings, and kirns, and other scenes of fes- 
ti^^'ty, he was a welcome guest, universally liked by the young and the old. 
But the failure of his farming projects, and the limited income with which 
he was compelled to support an increasing family and an expensive statior 
Jn life, preyed on his spiriu ; and during these fits of despair, he was will 



XX XVI 



LIl'E OF ROBERl BURNS. 



I I *ng too often to become the companion of the thoughtless and the gross. ) 
; j am grieved to say, that besides leaving the book too much for the bowl, 
! I and grave and wise friends for lewd and reckless companions, he was also 
I I in the occasional practice of composing songs, in which he surpassed the 
I j licentiousness, as well as the wit and humour, of the old Scottish muse. 
j j These have unfortunately found their way to the press, and I am afraid 
; I they cannot be recalled. In conclusion, I may say, that few men have had 
j I so much of the poet about them, and few poets so much oi' the man ; — the 
j : man was probably less pure than he ought to have been, but the poet was 
I j pure and bright to the last." 

i i The reader must be sufficiently prepared to hear, that from the time 

I i when he entered on his excise duties, the poet more and more neglected 
j j the concerns of his farm. Occasionally, he might be seen holding the 
I I plough, an exercise in which he excelled, and was proud of excelling, or 
j I stalking down his furrows, with the white sheet of grain wrapt about him, 
j j a " tenty seedsman ;" but he was more commonly occupied in far different 
I I pursuits. •' I am now," says he, in one of his letters, " a poor rascally 
gauger, condemned to gallop two hundred miles every week, to inspect 
dirty ponds and yeasty barrels." Both in verse and in prose he has recorded 
the feelings with which he first followed his new vocation. His jests on 
the subject are uniformly bitter. " I have the same consolation," he tells 
Mr Ainslie, " which I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to his audi- 
ence in the streets of Kilmarnock : ' Gentlemen, for your farther encourage 
ment, I can assure you that ours is the most blackguard corps under the 
crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has the surest chance 
of preferment.' " On one occasion, however, he takes a higher tone. " There 
is a certain stigma," says he to Bishop Geddes, " in the name of Excise- 
man ; but I do not intend to borrow honour from any profession :" — which 
may perhaps remind the reader of Gibbon's lofty language, on finally quit- 
ting the learned and polished circles of London and Paris, for his Swiss re- 
tirement : " 1 am too modest, or too proud, to rate my value by that ol 
my associates." 

Burns, in his perpetual perambulations over the moors of Dumfriesshire, 
had every temptation to encounter, which bodily fatigue, the blandishments 
of hosts and hostesses, and the habitual manners of those who acted along 
with hira in the duties of the excise, could present. He was, moreover, 
wherever he went, exposed to perils of his own. by the reputation which 
he had earned as a poet, and by his extraordinary powers of entertainment 
in conversation. From the castle to the cottage, every door flew open at 
his approach ; and the old system of hospitality, then fiouMshing, rendered 
it difficult for the most soberly inclined guest to rise from any man's board 
in the same trim that he sat down to it. The farmer, if Burns was seen 
passing, left his reapers, and trotted by the side of Jenny Geddes, until 
he could persuade the bard that the day_was hot enough to demand an 
extra-libation. If he entered an inn at midnight, after all the ir^raates 
wei^ in bed, the news of his arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret; 
ana ere ten minutes had elapsed, the landlord and all his guests were as- 
sembled round the ingle ; the largest punch-bowl was produced ; and 

" Be ours this right — who knows what comes to-morrow ?" 

was the language of every eve in the circle that welcomed him. The 
statehest gentry of the county, whenever they had especial merriment ir 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxvil 

uew, called in the wit and eloquence of Burns to enliven tneir ^arousals.* 
The famous song of The Wfiistle of tvorth commemorates a scene of this 
kind, more picturesque in some of its circumstances than every day oc- 
.?urred, yet strictly in character with the usual tenor of life among this jo- 
vial squirearchy. Three gentlemen of ancient descent, had met to deter- 
mine, by a solemn drinking match, who should possess the Whistle, which 
a common ancestor of them all had earned ages before, in a Bacchanalian 
contest of the same sort with a noble toper from Denmark ; and the poet 
was summoned to watch over and celebrate the issue of the debate 

*' Then up rose the bard like a prophet in drink, 
Craigdarroch shall soar when creation shall sink ; 
But if thou would'st flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come, one bottle more, and have at the sublime.*' 

Nor, as has already been hinted, was he safe from temptations of this kind, 
even when he was at home, and most disposed to enjoy in quiet the socie- 
ty of his wife and children. Lion-gazers from all quarters beset him ; they 
ate and drank at his cost, and often went away to criticise him and his 
fare, as if they had done Burns and his black howl \ great honour in con- 
descending to be entertained for a single evening, with such company and 
such liquor. 

We have on record various glimpses o^ him, as he appeared while he 
was half-farmer, half-exciseman ; and some of these present him in atti- 
tudes and aspects, on which it would be pleasing to dwell. For examj)le, 
the circumstances under which the verses on The wounded Hare were 
written, are mentioned generally by the poet himself. James Thomson, 
son of the occupier of a farm adjoining Elliesland, told Allan Cunningham, 
that it was he who wounded the animal. " Burns," said this person, " was 
in the custom, when at home, of strolling by himself in the twilight every 
evening, along the Nith, and by the march between his land and ours. 
The hares often came and P'bbled our wheat braird ; and once, in the 
gloaming, — it was in April, /got a shot at one, and wounded her : she ran 
bleeding by Burns, who was pacing up and down by himself, not far from 
me. He started, and with a bitter curse, ordered me out of his sight, or 
he would throw me instantly into the Nith. And had 1 stayed, Til war- 
rant he would have been as good as his word — though I was both young 
and strong." 

Among other curious travellers who found their way about this time to 
Elliesland, was Captain Grose, the celebrated antiquarian, whom Burns 
briefly describes as 

" A fine fat fodgel wight — 
Of stature short, but genius bright ;" 

and who has painted his own pt)rtrait, both with pen and pencil, at full 
length, in his Olio. This gentleman's taste and pursuits are ludicrously set 
forth in the copy of verses — 

• These particulars are from a letter of David JMaccuUoch, Esq^., who, being at thit period 
a very young man, a nassionate admirer of Burns^ and a capital singer of many of his serious 
songs, used often, in nis enthusiasm, to accompany the poet on his professional excursions. 

•f- Bnrns's famous black punch-bowl, of Inverary marble, was the nuptial gift of Mi Ar- 
mour, his father-in-liw, who himself fashioned it. After passing through many hands, it ia 
now in excellent keeping, tliat of Alexander Hastie, Esq. ot Lonclon. 



xxxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

" Hear, Land o" Cakes and brither Scots, 
Frae iMaidenkirk to John O'Groats, 
A chield*s amang ye takin' notes," &c. 

and, inter alia, his love of port is not forgotten. Grose and Bums had toe 
much in common, not to become great friends. The poet's accurate know- 
ledge of Scottish phraseology and customs, was of great use to the re- 
searches of the humourous antiquarian ; and, above all, it is to their ac- 
quaintance that we owe Tarn o Shanter. Burns told the story as he had 
heard it in Ayrshire, in a letter to the Captain, and was easily persuaded 
to versify it. The poem was the work of one day ; and Mrs. Burns well re- 
members the circumstances. He spent most of the day on his favourite walk 
by the river, where, in the afternoon, she joined him with some of her 
children. "He was busily engaged crooning to himsell, and Mrs. Burns 
perceiving that her presence was an interruption, loitered behind with her 
little ones among the broom. Her attention was presently attracted by the 
strange and wild gesticulations of the bard, who, now at some distance, 
was agonized with an ungovernable access of joy. He was reciting very 
loud, and with the tears rolling down his cheeks, those animated verses 
which he had just conceived : — 

" Now Tam ! O Tarn ! had they been queans, 
A' plump and strappiii' in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder *linen,. — 
Thir breaks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush o' good blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies. 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies !" -f 

To the last Burns was of opinion that Tarn o* Shanter was the best oi 
all his productions ; and although it does not always happen that poet and 
public come to the same conclusion on such points, I believe the decision in 
question has been all but unanimously approved of. The admirable execu- 
tion of the piece, so far as it goes, leaves nothing to wish for ; the only cri- 
ticism has been, that the catastrophe appears unworthy of the preparation. 
Burns lays the scene of this remarkable performance almost on the spot 
where he was born ; and all the terrific circumstances by which he has 
marked the progress of Tam's midnight journey, are drawn from local tra- 
dition. 

*' By this time he was cross the ford 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd, 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck-bane; 
And through the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunter's fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorr., aboon the well, 
W^hare Mungo's mither hang'd hersell.*' 

None of these tragic memoranda were derived from imagination. Nor was 
Tarn o' Shanter himself an imaginary character. Shanter is a farm close 
feo Kirkoswald's, that smuggling village, in which Burns, when nineteen 
years old, studied mensuration, and " first became acquainted with scenes 
of swaggering riot." The then occupier of Shanter, by name Douglas 

* " The manufacturer's term for a fine linen, woven on a reed of 1700 divisions-" — Crojnek. 

•\- The above is quoted from a MS. journal of Cromek. Mr. M'Diarmid confirms the 

statenrient, and adds, that the poet, having committed the verses to writing on the top of hif 

tott'dyke over the water, came into the house, and read them immediate?y in nigh triumph a- 

he fireside. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Ixxxix 



Cjraliame, was, by all accounts, equally what the Tarn of the poet appears, 
— a jolly, careless, rustic, who took much more interest in the contraband 
traffic of the coast, than the rotation of crops. Burns knew the man well ; 
and to his dying day, he, nothing loath, passed among his rural compeers 
by the name of Tarn o' Shanter. 

A few words will bring us to the close of Burns's career at Elliesland. 
Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, happening to pass through Nithsdale in 1790, 
met Burns riding rapidly near Closeburn. The poet was obliged to pursue 
his professional journey, but sent on Mr, Ramsay and his fellow-traveller 
to Elliesland, where he joined them as soon as his duty permitted him 
saying, as he entered, " I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, stewed 
in haste." Mr. Ramsay was " much pleased with his uxor Sabina qualisy 
^nd his modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics.* 
The evening was spent delightfull3^ A gentleman of dry temperament, 
who looked in accidentally, soon partook the contagion, and sat listen- 
ing to Burns with the tears running over his cheeks. ** Poor Burns!" sayp 
Mr. Ramsay, " from that time I met him no more." 

The summer after, some English travellers, calling z.x. Elliesland, were 
told that the poet was walking by the river. They proceeded in search of 
liim, and presently, " on a rock that projected into the stream, they saw 
a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made 
of a fox's skin on his head ; a loose greai-coat, fastened round him by a 
belt, from which depended an enormous Highland broadsword. It was 
Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked them to share 
nis humble dinner." These tra^^ellers also classed the evening they sj.en 
at Elliesland with the brightest ^f their lives. 

Towards the close of 1791, the poet, finally despairing of his farm, ae- 
iermined to give up his lease, which the kindness of his landlord rendered 
easy of arrangemeni- ; and procuring an appointment to the Dumfries divi 
sion, which raised his salary from the revenue lu 1:^70 per annum, removed 
his family to the county town, in which he terminated his days. His con 
uuct as an excise officer had hitherto met with uniform approbation ; and 
he nourished warm hopes of being promoted, when he had thus avowedly 
devoted himself altogether to the service. He left Elliesland, however, 
with a heavy heart. The affection of his neighbours was rekindled in all its 
early fervour by the thoughts of parting with him ; and the roup of his 
farming-stock and other effects, was, in spite of whisky, a very melancholy 
scene. The competition for his chattlps was eager, each being anxious to 
secure a memorandum of Burns's residence among them. It is pleasing tc 
knov,', that among other " titles manifold" to their respect and gratitude, 
Burns had superintended the formation of a subscription library in the parish. 
His letters to the booksellers on this subject do him much honour: his 
choice of authors (which business was naturally left to his discretion) being 
in the highest degree judicious. Such institutions are now common, almost 
universal, indeed, in all the rural districts of southern Scotland ; but it 
phould never be forgotten that Burns was among the first, if not the very 
first, to set the example. " He was so good," says Mr. Riddel, '' as to 
take the whole management of this concern ; he was treasurer, librarian, 
and censor, to our little society, who will long have a grateful sense of his 
public spirit, and exertions for their improvement and information." Once, 
and only once, did Burns quit his residence at Elliesland to revisit Edin- 
burp^h. His object was to close accounts with Creech ; that business ac 



Ku LIFE OF ROBEliT BURNS. 

complished, he returnee immediately, and he never again saw the capital 
He thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — " T j a man who has a home, however 
humble and remote, if that home is, like mine, the scene of domestic com- 
fort, the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust— 

" Vain pomp and glor of the world, I hate you !" 

« When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some ga|> 
Ing blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim, 
what merits had he had, or what demerits have I had, in some state oi 
pre- existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with the sceptre 
of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I kicked into the world, 
the sport of folly or the victim of pride . . . often as I have glided with 
humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itseli 
to me as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in pro- 
portion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have 
pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out hw 
kQin&, or as we draw out a perspective '* 



CHAPTER Vlll. 

lONTENT?. — J* mere beset in town than countTy — His early biographers, {Dr. Siirrie not est* 
cepted), have coloured too darkly under that head — li is not correct to speak of the poet as 
hnvin<j sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of his levels as other than occasional, or oj 
their having interfered trith the punctual discharge of his official duties — He is shown to 
have been the affectionate and beloved husband, although passing follies imputed ; and the 
constant and most assiduous instructor <f his children — Impulses of the French Revolution 
— Symptoms of fraternizing — The attention of his ifficial superiors is called to them — Prac- 
tically no blow is infUcted, only the bud name — Interesting details of this period-— Gives his 
whole soul to song making — Preference in that for his native dialect, with the other atta-xd' 
out factn, as to tha. portion of his immortal lays. 



" The King*s most hanibie strvant, i 
Can scarcely spare & minute | 
But I am yours at dinner .ttnasj. 
Or else the devil's in it.*' • 

The four principal biographers of our poet, Heron, Curne, Walker, an% 
Irving, concur in the general statement, that his moral course from the 
*ime when he settled in Dumfries, was downwards. Heron knew more of 
J\e matter personally than any of the others, and his words are these ; — 
' In Dumfries his dissipation became still more deeply habitual. He was 
here exposed more than in the country, to be solicited to share the riot 
of the dissolute and the idle. Foolish young men* such as writers' ap- 
prentices, young surgeons, merchants" clerks, and his brother excise- 
men, flocked eagerly about him, and from time to time pressed him to 
drink with them, that they might enjoy his wicked wit. The Caledonian 
Club, too, and the Dumfries and Galloway Hunt, had occasional meet- 
ings in Dumfries after Burns came to reside there, and the poet was of 
course invited to share their hospitality, and hesitated not to accept the 
invitation. The morals of the town were, in consequence of its becom- 
ing so much the scene of public amusement, not a httle corrupted, and 
though a husband and a father, Burns did not escape suflering by the gene- 
al contamination, in a manner which I forbear to describe. In the inter- 
^f'dh between his different fits of intemperance, he suffered the keenest an- 
guish of remorse and horribly afflictive foresight. His Jean behaved with 
a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, which made 
him feel more bitterly the evils of his misconduct, though they could not 
reclaim him." — This picture, dark as it is, wants some distressing shades 
that mingle in the parallel one by Dr. Currie ; it wants nothing, however, 
jf which truth demands the insertion. That Burns, dissipated, ere he went 
to Dumfries, became still more dissipated in a town, than he had been in 
the country, is certain. It may also be true, that his wife had her own 

• " The above answer to an invitation was written extempore on a leaf torn from his £»<■ 
ei»e-book — Cromek's MSS ^ 



jtcii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

particiJar causes, sometimes, for dissatisfaction. But tliat Burns ever sunti 
mto a toper — that he ever was addicted to solitary drinking — that his bot- 
tle ever interfered with his discharge of his duties as an exciseman — or 
that, in spite of some transitory follies, he ever ceased to be a most affec- 
tionate husband — all these charges have been insinuated — and they are all 
fahe. His intemperance was, as Heron says, mfits ; his aberrations of all 
kinds were occasional, not systematic ; they were all to himself the sources 
3f exquisite misery in the retrospect ; they were the aberrations of a man 
whose moral sense was never deadened; — of one who encountered more 
temptations from without and from within, than the immense majority ol 
mankind, far from having to contend against, are even able to imagine ; — 
of one, finally, who prayed for pardon, where alone effectual pardon could 
be found ; — and who died ere he had reached that term of life up to which 
the passions of many, who, their mortal career being regarded as a whole, 
are honoured as among the most virtuous of mankind, have proved too 
strong for the control of reason. We have already seen that the poet was 
careful of decorum in all things during the brief space of his prosperity at 
Eiliesland, and that he became less so on many points, as the prospects of 
his farming speculation darkened around him, It seems to be equally certain, 
that he entertained high hopes of promotion in the excise at the period of 
his removal to Dumfries ; and that the comparative recklessness of \\h 
later conduct there, was consequent on a certain overclouding of these pro- 
fessional expectations. The case is broadly stated so by Walker and Paul ; 
and there are hints to the same effect in the narrative of Curric Thii 
statement has no doubt been exaggerated- but it has its foundation in truth . 
and by the kindness of Mr. Tram, supervisor at Castle Douglas in Gallo^ 
way, 1 shall presently be enabled to give some details which may throw 
light on this business. 

Burns was much patronised wdien in Edinburgh by the Honourable Hency 
Erskine, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and other leading Whigs of 
the place — much more so, to their honour be it said, than by any of the 
influential adherents of the then administration. His landlord at Eilies- 
land, Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, his neighbour, Mr. Riddel of Friars Carse, 
and most of the other gentlemen who showed him special attention, belong- 
ed to the same political party ; and, on his removal to Dumfries, it so hap- 
pened, that some of liis immediate superiors in the revenue service of the 
district, and other persons of standing authority, into whose society he was 
thrown, entertained sentiments of the same ae&cription. Burns, whenever 
in his letters he talks seriousl}' of political matters, uniformly describes his 
early jacobitism as mere " matter of fancy." It may, however, be easily 
believed, that a fancy like his, long indulged in dreams of that sort, was 
jvell prepared to pass into certain other dreams, which likewise involved 
feelings of dissatisfaction with " the existing order of things." Many of 
the old elements of political disaffection in Scotland, put on a new shape at 
the outbreaking of the French Revolution ; and Jacobites became half jaco- 
bins, ere they were at all aware in what the doctrines of jacobinism weie 
to end. The Whigs naturally regarded the first dawn of freedom in France 
with feelings of sympathy, delight, exultation. The general, the all but 
universal tone of feeling was favourable to the first assailants of the Bour 
bon despotism ; and there were i^cw who more ardently participated in the 
general sentiment of the day than Burns. The revulsion of feeling tha* 
ook place in this country at large, when wanton«atrocities began to stair 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcn 

the course of the French Revolution, and Burke lifted his powerful voice, 
was great. Scenes more painful at the time, and more so even now in the 
retrospect, than had for generations afflicted Scotland, were the conse- 
quences of the rancour into which party feelings on both sides now rose and 
fermented, Old and dear ties of friendship were torn in sunder ; society- 
was for a time shaken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams ot 
the Jacobites there had always been much to command respect, high chi« 
/alrous devotion, reverence for old affections, ancestral loyalty, and the 
generosity of romance. In the new species of hostility, every thing seemed 
mean as well as perilous ; it was scorned even more than hated. The very 
name stained whatever it came near ; and men that had known and loved 
each other from boyhood, stood aloof, if this influence interfered, as if it 
had been some loathsome pestilence. 

There was a great deal of stately Toryism at this time in the town oi 
Dumfries, which was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gen- 
tlemen's families of the south of Scotland. Feelings that worked more 
violently in Edinburgh than in London, acquired additional energy still, in 
this provincial capital. All men's eyes were upon Burns. He was the 
standing marvel of the place ; his toasts, his jokes, his epigrams, his songs, 
were the daily food of conversation and scandal ; and he, open and care- 
less, and thinking he did no great harm in saying and singing what many 
of his superiors had not the least objection to hear and applaud, soon be- 
gan to be considered among the local admirers and disciples of King George 
the Third and his minister, as the most dangerous of all the apostles of se- 
dition, — a«d to be shunned accordingly. 

The records of the Excise-Office are silent concerning the suspicions 
vrhich the Commissioners of the time certainly took up in regard to Burns 
15 a political offender — according to the phraseology of the tempestuous 
period, a democrat In that department, as then conducted, I am assured 
that nothing could have been more unlike the usual course of things, than 
that one syllable should have been set down in writing on such a subject, 
unless the case had been one of extremities. That an inquiry was insti- 
tuted, we know from Burns's own letters — but what the exact termination 
of the inquiry was, will never, in all probability, be ascertained. Accord- 
ing to the tradition of the neighbourhood, Burns, i?iler alia, gave great of- 
fence by demurring in a large mixed company to the proposed toast, " the 
health of William Pitt ;" and left the room in indignation, because the so- 
ciety rejected what he wished to substitute, namely, " the health of a 
greater and a better man, George Washington." I suppose the warmest 
admirer of Mr. Pitt's talents and politics would hardly venture now-a-days 
to dissent substantially from Burns's estimate of the comparative merits of 
these two great men. The name of Washington, at all events, when con- 
temporary passions shall have finally sunk into the peace of the grave, will 
unquestionably have its place in the first rank of heroic virtue, — a station 
which demands the exhibition of victory pure and unstained over tempta- 
tions and trials extraordinary, in kind as well as strength. But at the time 
when Burns, being a servant of Mr. Pitt's government, was guilty of this 
indiscretion, it is obvious that a great deal " more was meant than reached 
the ear." In the poet's own correspondence, we have traces of another oc 
currcnce of the same sort. Burns thus writes to a gentleman at whose 
table he had dined the day before : — " I was, I know, drunk last night, but 
I am sober thi.? morning. From the expressions Captain — made use 



KCiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

of to me, had I had nobody's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
certainly have come, according to the manner of the world, to the neces- 
sity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such 
as generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to 
think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and children in 
a drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain political 
opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to the brink of 
destruction. 1 dread last night's business may be interpreted in the same 
way. You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mrs. 
Burns's welfare with the task of waiting on every gentleman who was pre- 
sent to state this to him ; and, as you please, show this letter. What, af- 
ter all, was the obnoxious toast ? May our success in the present war be equal 
to the justice of our cause — a toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty 
cannot object to." — Burns, no question, was guilty of unpoliteness as well 
as indiscretion, in offering any such toasts as these in mixed company ; but 
that such toasts should have been considered as attaching any grave sus- 
picion to his character as a loyal subject, is a circumstance which can only 
be accounted for by reference to the exaggerated state of political feelings 
on all matters, and among all descriptions of men, at that melancholy pe- 
riod of disaffection, distrust, and disunion. Who, at any other period than 
that lamentable time, would ever have dreamed of erecting the drinking, 
or declining to drink, the health of a particular minister, or the approving, 
or disapproving, of a particular measure of government, into the test of a 
man's loyalty to his King ? 

Burns, eager of temper, loud of tone, and with declamation and sarcasm 
equally at command, was, we may easily believe, the most hated of human 
beings, because the most dreaded, among the provincial champions of the 
administration of which he thought fit to disapprove. But that he ever, in 
his most ardent moods, upheld the principles of those whose applause of 
the French Revolution was but the mask of revolutionary designs at home, 
after these principles had been really developed by those that maintained 
them, and understood by him, it may be safely denied. There is not, in 
all his correspondence, one syllable to give countenance to such a charge. 
His indiscretion, however, did not always confine itself to words; and 
though an incident now about to be recorded, belongs to the year 1 79"2, 
before the French war broke out. there is reason to believe that it formed 
the main subject of the inquiry which the Excise Commissioners thought 
themselves called upon to institute touching the politics of our poet. 

At that period a great deal of confcrabana traffic, chiefly from the Isle of 
Man, was going on along the coasts of Galloway and Ayrshire, and the 
vrhole of the revenue officers from Gretna to Dumfries, were placed under 
the orders of a superintendent residing in Annan, who exerted himself 
zealoufly in intercepting the descent of the smuggling vessels. On the 
2?th of February, a suspicious-looking brig was discovered in the Sol way 
Frith, and Burns was one of the party whom the superintendent conducted 
to watch her motions. She got into shallow water the day afterwards, and 
the officers were enabled to discover that her crew were numerous, armed, 
and not likely to yield without a struggle. Lewarrs, a brother exciseman, 
an intimate friend of our poet, was accordingly sent to Dumfries for a 
guard of dragoons ; the superintendent, Mr. Crawford, proceeded himself 
on a similar errand to Ecclefechan, and Burns was left with some men un- 
der his orders, to watch the brig, and prevent landing or escape. From 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. so* 

the private journal of one of the excisemen, (now in my hands), it appears 
that Burns manifested considerable impatience while thus occupied, being 
(eft for many hours in a wet salt-marsh, with a force which he knew to be 
inadequate for the purpose it was meant to fulfil. One of his comrades 
hearing him abuse his friend Lewars in particular, for being slow about his 
journey, the man answered, that he also wished the devil had him for his 
pains, and that Burns, in the meantime, would do well to indite a song upon 
the sluggard : Burns said nothing ; but after taking a few strides by himsell 
among the reeds and shingle, rejoined his party, and chanted to them tbir 
w^U-knowu ditty : — 

"The de'il cam' fiddling thro' the town, 
And danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ; 
And ilk auld wife cry'd, ' AuW Mahoun, 
' We wish you luck o' the prize, man. 

Chorus — * We'll mak' our maut, and brew our drink, 
' We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man ; 
* And mony thanks to the muckle black de*il 
' That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman 

* There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 

* There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

* But the ae best dance e'er cam' to our Ian', 

* Was the deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman.' " 

Lewars arrived shortly afterwards v>^ith his dragoons ; and Burns, putting 
himself at their head, waded, sword in hand, to the brig, and was the first to 
board her. The crew lost heart, and submitted, though their numbers were 
greater than those of the assailing force. The vessel was condemned, and, 
with all her arms and stores, sold by auction next day at Dumfries : upon 
which occasion Burns, whose behaviour had been highly commended, 
thought fit to purchase four carronades, by way of trophy. But his glee 
went a step farther ; — he sent the guns, with a letter, to the French Con- 
vention, requesting that body to accept of them as a mark of his admiration 
and respect. The present, and its accompaniment, were intercepted at the 
custom-house at Dover ; and here, there appears to be little room to do'ibt, 
9vas the principal circumstance that drew on Burns the notice of hi^" ^<»alous 
superiors. We were not, it is true, at war with France ; but every one 
knew and felt that we were to be so ere long ; and nobody can pretend 
that Burns was not guilty, on this occasion, of a most sbsurd a^d presump- 
tuous breach of decorum. When he learned the Impression that had been 
created by his conduct, and its piobrible consequences, he wrote to his pa- 
tron, Mr. Graham of Fintray, the i^'^^wing letter, dated December 1792: 

" Sir, — I nave been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mit- 
chell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your 
board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person 
disaffected to government Sir, you are a husband and a father. You 
know what you would feel to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and 
your helpless, prattling little ones turned adrift into the world, degraded 
and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and re- 
pected, and left almost without the necessary support of a miserable exist* 
'>nce. Alas ! Sir, must I think that such soon will be my lot ? and from the 
damned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ? I believe. Sir, I 
may aver it. and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deli- 



^on LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

berate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, thaE 
those I have men ioned, hung over my head. And I say that the allega» 
tion, whatever villain has made it, is a He. To the British Constitution, 
on revolution principles, next, after my God, I am most devoutly attached 
You, iSir, have been much and generously my friend. Heaven knows hc}« 
warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you 
Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent ; has given you pa- 
tronage, and me dependence, i would not, for my single self, call on your 
humanity : were such my insular, unconnected situation, 1 would disperse 
the tear that now swells in my eye ; I could brave misfortune ; I could face 
ruin ; at the worst, ' death's thousand doors stand open.' But, good God! 
the tender concerns ti dt I have mentioned, the claims and ties that I see 
at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve courage and wither 
resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have allowed 
me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. To 
these. Sir, permit me to appeal. By these may I adjure you to save ijie 
from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me ; and which, with my 
latest breath, I will say I have not deserved !" 

On the 2d of January, (a week or two afterwards), we find him writing to 
Mrs. Dunlop in these terms : — " Mr. C. can be of little service to tne at 
present ; at least, 1 should be shy of applying. I cannot probably be set- 
tled as a supervisor for several years. I must wait the rotation of lists, 
&c. Besides, some envious malicious devil has raised a little demur on my 
political principles, and I wish to let that matter settle before I offer my- 
self too much in the eye of my superiors. 1 have set henceforth a seal en 
my lips, as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my senti' 
ments. In tliis, as in every thing else, I shall show the undisguised emo- 
tions of my soul. War, I deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are in 
the blast that announces the destructive demon. But " 

<' The remainder of this letter," says Cromek, " has been torn away by 
some barbarous hand." — There can be little doubt that it was torn awa;y by 
one of the kindest hands in the world, that of Mrs. Dunlop herself, and 
■^'om the most praise-worth motive. 

The exact result of the Excise Board's investigation is hidden, as has 
been said above, in obscurity ; nor is it at all likely that the cloud will be 
withdrawn hereafter. A general impression, however, appears to have 
gone forth, that the affair terminated in something which Burns himseli 
considered as tantamount to the destruction of all hope of future promo- 
tion in his profession ; and it has been insinuated by almost every one of 
his biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhappily, even 
fatally, on the tone of his mind, and, in consequence, on the habits of his 
life. In a word, the early death of Burns has been (by implication at least) 
ascribed mainly to the circumstances in question. Even Sir Walter Scofct 
has distinctly intimated his acquiescence in this prevalent notion. " The 
political predilections," says l>e, " for they could hardly be termed princi- 
ples, of Burns, were entirely determined by his feelings. At hi*s first ap- 
pearance, he felt, or affected, a propensity to Jacobitism. Indeed, a youth 
of his warm imagination in Scotland thirty years ago, could hardly escape 
this bias. The side of Charles Edward was that, not surely of sound sense 
and sober reason, but of romantic gallantry and high achievement. The 
madequacy of the means by which that prince attempted to regain the 
pT-own forfeited by his fathers, the strange and almost poetical adventures 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



xcvii 



iv^hich he underwent, — the Scottish martial character, honoured in his vic- 
tories, and degraded and crushed in his defeat, — the tales of the veterans 
who had followed his adventurous standard, were all calculated to impress 
upon the mind of a poet a warm interest in the cause of the House of 
Stuart. Yet the impression was not of a very serious cast; for Burns him- 
self acknowledges in one of his letters, (Reliques, p. 240), that ' to tell 
the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some acci- 
dental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle' l^e 
same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed Burns in his choice of poli- 
tical tenets, when the country was agitated by i-evolutionary principles. 
That the poet should have chosen the side on which high talents were 
most likely to procure celebrity ; that he to whom the fastidious distinc- 
tions of society were always odious, should have listened with compla 
cence to the voice of French philosophy, which denounced them as usur- 
pations on the rights of man, was precisely the thing to be expected. Yet 
we cannot but think, that if his superiors in the Excise department had 
tried the experiment of soothing rather than irritating his feelings, they 
might have spared themselves the disgrace of rendering desperate the pos- 
sessor of such uncommon talents. For it is but too certain, that from the 
moment his hopes of promotion were utterly blasted, his tendency to dis- 
sipation hurried him precipitately into those excesses which shortened his 
life. We doubt not, that in that awful period of national discord, he had 
done and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the servants of govern- 
ment from countenancing an avowed partizan of faction. But this partizan 
was Burns ! Surely the experiment of lenity might have been tried, and 
perhaps successfully. The conduct of Mr. Graham of Fintray, our poet's 
only shield against actual dismission and consequent ruin, reflects the high- 
est credit on that gentleman " 

In the general strain of sentiment in this passage, who can refuse to 
concur ? but I am bound to say, that after a careful examination of all the 
documents, printed and MS., to which I have had access. I have great 
doubts as to some of the principal facts assumed in this eloquent state- 
ment. I have before me. for example, a letter of Mr. Findlater, formerly' 
Collector at Glasgow, who was, at the period in question, Burnss imme- 
diate superior in the Dumfries district, in which that very respectable per- 
son distinctly says : — ' 1 may venture to assert, that when Burns was ac 
cused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took 
place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps 
a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future. Neither do 
^ believe his promotion was thereby affected, as has been stated. That, 
cad he lived, would, 1 have every reason to think, have gone on in the 
usual routine. His good and steady friend Mr. Graham would have attended 
to this. What cause, therefore, was there for depression of spirits on tlii 
account '" or how should he have been hurried thereby to a premature 
grave ? / never saw his spirit fail till he was borne dov\ n by the pressure 
of disease and bodily weakness ; and even then it would occasionally revive, 
and hke an expiring lamp, emit bright flashes to the last." 

When the war had fairly broken out, a battalion of volunteers was form- 
ed m Dumfries, and Burns was an original member of the corps. It is 
very true that his accession was objected to by some of his neighbours 
but these were over- ruled by the gentlemen who took the lead in the busi- 
cess, and the poet soon became, as might have been expected, the gra^t 



xoviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

est possible favourite with his brothers in arms. His commanding officer 
Colonel De Peyster, attests his zealous discharge of his duties as a mem 
ber of the corps ; and their attachment to him was on the increase to thw 
last. He was their laureate, and in that capacity did more good service to 
the government of the country, at a crisis of the darkest alarm and dan- 
ger, than perhaps any one person of his rank and station, with the ex- 
ception of Dibdin, had the power or the inclination to render. " Burns," 
says Allan Cunningham, " was a zealous lover of his country, and has 

stamped his patriotic feelings in many a lasting verse His poor ana 

honest Sodger laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every- 
where sung with an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's 
Exile of Erin and Wounded Hi^ssar were published. Dumfries, which 
sent so many of her sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port ; and 
the poet, wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall. I wish 
this exquisite and useful song, with Srofs ivka hue wi Wallace bled, — the 
Sofig of Death, and Does ha ugh f?/ Gaul Invasion Threat, — all lyrics which 
enforce a love of country, and a martial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had 
obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re- 
membered by the rich to his prejudice — his imperishable lyrics were re- 
warded only by the admiration and tears of his fellow peasants." 

Lastly, whatever the rebuke of the Excise Board amounted to — (Mr. 
James Gray, at that time schoolmaster in Dumfries, and seeing much of 
Burns both as the teacher of his children, and as a personal friend and as- 
SDciate of literary taste and ta:lent, is the only person who gives any thing 
ike ?n exact statement : and according to him, Burns was admonished 
' that it was his business to act, not to think") — in whatever language the 
censure was clothed, the Excise Board did nothing from which Burns had 
any cause to suppose that his hopes of ultimate promotion were extinguish- 
ed. Nay, if he had taken up such a notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr. 
Elndlater, who had him constantly under his eye, and who enjoyed all his 
confidence, and who enjoyed then, as he still enjoys, the utmost confidence 
of the Board, must have known the fact to be so. Such, I cannot help 
thinking, is the fair view of the case : at all events, we know that Burns, 
the year before he died, was permitted to act as a Supervisor ; a thing not 
likely to have occurred had there been any resolution against promoting 
him in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank. 

On *.'.ie whole, then, I am of opinion that the Excise Board have been 
dealt with harshly, when men of eminence have talked of their conduct to 
Burns as affixing disgrace to them. It appears that Burns, being guilty 
unquestionably of great indiscretion and indecorum both of word and deed, 
was admonished in a private manner, that at such a period of national dis- 
traction, it behoved a public officer, gifted v^^'th talents and necessarily with 
influence like his, very carefully to abstain from conduct which, now that 
passions have had time to cool, no sane man will say became his situation 
that Burns's subsequent coiiduct effaced the unfavourable impression creat- 
ed in the minds of his superiors : and that he had begun to taste the fruits 
of their recovered approbation and confidence, ere his career was closed by 
illness and death. These Commissioners of Excise were themselves sub- 
ordinate officers of the government, and strictly responsible lor those un- 
der them. That they did try the experiment of lenity to a certain extent, 
appears to be made out ; that they could have been justified in trying it to a 
farther extent, is at the least doubtful. But with regard to the government 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xci> 

af tlie country itself, I must say I think it is much more difficult to defend 
them. Mr. Pitt's ministry gave Dibdin a pension o£ £2{jO a-year for writ- 
ing his Sea Songs ; and one cannot help remembering, that when Burns did 
begin to excite the ardour and patriotism of his countrymen by such songt- 
as Mr. Cunningham has been alluding to, there were persons who had 
every opportunity of representing to the Premier the claims of a greater 
than Dibdin. Lenity, indulgence, to whatever length carried in such 
quarters as these, would have been at once safe and graceful. What the 
minor politicians of the day thought of Burns's poetry I know not ; but 
Mr. Pitt himself appreciated it as highly as any man. " I can think of 
no verse," said the great Minister, when I3urns was no more — " I can think 
of no verse since Shakspeare's, that has so much the appearance of com- 
ing sweetly from nature." * 

Had Burns put forth some newspaper squibs upon Lepaux or Carnot, or 
a smart pamphlet " On the State of the Country," he might have been 
more attended to in his lifetime, it is common to say, " what is every- 
body's business is nobody's business ;" but one may be pardoned for think- 
ing that in such cases as this, that which the general voice of the country 
does admit to be everybody's business, comes in fact to be the business o/ 
those whom the nation intrusts with national concerns. 

To return to Sir Waiter Scott's reviewal — it seems that he has some- 
what overstated the political indiscretions of which Burns was actually 
guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray, f who, as has al- 
ready been mentioned, enjoyed Burns's intimacy and confidence during his 
residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent 
man. will for a moment suspect him of giving any other than what he be- 
lieves to be true. 

'• Burns (says he) was enthusiastically fond of liberty, and a lover of the 
popular part of our constitution ; but he saw and admu'ed the just and de- 
licate proportions of the political fabric, and nothing could be farther from 
his aim than to level with the dust the venerable pile reared by the labours 
and the wisdom of ages. That provision of the constitution, however, by 
which it is made to contain a self-correcting principle, obtained no incon- 
siderable share of his admiration : he was, therefore, a zealous advocate of 
constitutional reform. The necessity of this he often supported in conver- 
sation with all the energy of an irresistible eloquence ; but there is no evi- 
dence that he ever went farther. He was a member of no political club. 
At the time when, in certain societies, the mad cry of revolution was rais- 
ed from one end of the kingdom to the other, his voice was never heard in 
their debates, nor did he ever support their opinions in writing, or corre- 
spond with them in any form whatever. Though limited to an income 
which any other man would have considered poverty, he refused ' 5(i a- 
year offered to him for a weekly article, by the proprietors of an opposition 
paper ; and two reasons, equally honourable to him, induced him to reject 
this proposal. His independent spirit spurned indignantly the idea of be- 

• I am a.ssured that Mr. Pitt used these words at the table of the late Lord Liverpool, 
Roon after Burns's death. How that event might come to be a natural topic of conversation 
at that table, will be seen in the sequel. 

+ Mr. Gray removed from the school of Dumfries to the High School of Edinburgh, ir. 
which eminent seminary he for many years laboured with distinguished success. He then be- 
came Professor of Latm in the Institution at Belfast ; he afterwards entered into holy orders^ 
and died a few years since in the East indies, as officiating chanJain to the Cjmpany in the 
presidency «f Madras. 



C LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

coming the hireling of a party ; and whatever may ^ave been his opinion 
of the men and measures that then prevailed, he d.d not thmk it right to 
fetter the operations of that government by which he was employed." 

The satement about the newspaper, refers to Mr. Perry of the Morning 
Chronicle, who, at the suggestion of Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, made the 
proposal referred to, and received for answer a letter which may be seen 
in the General Correspondence of our poet, and the tenor of which is in 
accordance with what Mr. Gray has said. Mr. Perry afterwards pressed 
Burns to settle in London as a regular writer for his paper, and the poet 
declined to do so, alleging that, however small, his Excise appointment 
was a certainty, which, in justice to his family, he could not think of aban 
doning. * 

Burns, after the Excise inquiry, took care, no doubt, to avoid similar 
scrapes ; but he had no reluctance to meddle largely and zealously in the 
squabbles of county politics and contested elections ; and thus, by merely 
espousing, on all occasions, the cause of the Whig candidates, kept up very 
effectually the spleen which the Tories had originally conceived on tolera- 
bly legitimate grounds. One of the most celebrated of these effusions was 
written on a desperately contested election for the Dumfries districtt of 
boroughs, between Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, and Mr. Miller the 
vounger of Dalswinton ; Burns, of course, maintaining the cause of his pa- 
tron's family. There is much humour in it : — 

THE FIVE CARLINES. 

1. There were five carlines in the 9<)uth, they fell upon a scheme^ 
To send a lad to Lunnun town to bring them tidings hame, 
Nor only bring them tidings hame, but do their errands there, 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith might be that laddie's share. 

2. There was i\laggy by the banks o' Nith, -f a dame w' pride eneu^ 
y\nd Marjor) o' the JMonylochs, ^ a carline auld and teugh ; 

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale, § that dwelt near 8olway-side, 
And whisky Jean that took her gill in Galloway sae wide; \\ 
And black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 51 o" gipsy kith and kin, — 
Five wighter carlines war na foun' the south countrie within. 

3. To send a lad to Lunnun town, they met upon a day, 

And mony a knight and mony a laird their errand fain wad gae. 
But nae ane could their fancy please ; O ne'er a ane but tway. 

4. The first he was a belted knight, ** bred o' a border clan. 
And he wad gae to Lunnun town, might nae man him wiihstan*. 
And he wad do theii errands weeL and nwikle he wad say, 
And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day. 

6. The next came in a sodger youth, f-f* and spak wi' modest grace. 
And he wad gae to Lunnun town, if sae their pleasure was; 
He wadna hecht them courtlv gifts, nor meikle speech pretend. 
But he wad hecht an honest heart, wad ne'er desert a friend. 

6. Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, at strife thir carlines fell, 
For some had gentle folks to please, and some wad please themseL. 

7- Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, and she spak up wi' pri.de» 
And she wad send the sodger youth, whatever might betide ; 
For the auld guidman o' Lunnun Xt court she didna care a pin ; 
But she wad ^nd the sodger youth to greet his eldest son. §^ 

• This is stated on the authority of fliajor Miller. 

•f- Dumfries, + liachmaben. § Annan. || Kirkcudbflgk' 

% Sanquhar. *• Sir J. Johnstone. ^f Major Miller. ^ 

tt George III. ^.J? The Prince of Males. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. d 

fi. Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, and a deadly aith she's taen. 
That she wad vote the border knight, though she should vote her lane; 
For far-afF fowls hae feathers fair, and fools o' change are fain ; 
But 1 hae tried the border knight, and I'll try hiin yet again. 

9. Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, a carline stoor and grim, 

The auld guidman, and the young guidman, for me may sink or swim; 
For fools will freat o' right or wrap?, while knaves laugh them to scorn : 
But the sotlger's friends hae blaw che best, so he shall bear the horn. 

10. Then whisky Jean spak ower ner drink. Ye wee! ken, kimnners a% 
The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, he's back's been at the wa' ; 
And mony a friend that kiss't his cup, is now a fremit wight, ^ 

Bui it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — I'll send the border knight. 

11. Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs, and wrinkled was her brow, 
Her ancient weed was ru!?set gray, her auld Scots bluid was true ; 

There's some great folks set light by me I set as light by them ; 

But I will sen' to Lunnun toun wham I like best at name. 

12. Sae how this weighty plea may end, nae mortal wight can teU, 
God grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himsell. 

Ttie above is far the best humoured of these productions. The ejection 
wO which it refers was carried in Major Miller's favour, but after a severe 
contest, and at a very heavy expense. 

These political conflicts were not to be mingled in with impunity by the 
chosen laureate, wit, and orator of the district. He himself, in an unpub- 
lished piece, speaks of the terror excited by 

'* Burns's venom, when 



He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen. 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line;'* 

ind represents his victims, on one of these electioneering occasions, as 
leading a choral shout that 



He for his heresies in church and state. 



Might richly merit Muir's and Palmer's fate." 

But what rendered him more and more the object of aversion to one set of 
people, was sure to connect him more strongly with the passions, and, un- 
fortunately for himself and for us, with the pleasures of the other ; and we 
have, among many confessions to the same purpose, the following, which I 
quote as the shortest, in one of the poet's letters from Dumfries to Mrs. 
Dunlop. " I am better, but not quite free of my complaint (he refers to 
the palpitation of heart.) You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, 
that in my way of life 1 want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occa- 
sional hard drinking is the devil to me." He knew well what he was doing 
whenever he mingled in such debaucheries : he had, long ere this, describ- 
ed himself as parting " with a slice of his constitution" every time he was 
guilty of such excess. 

This brings us back to a subject on which it can give )io one pleasure to 
expatiate. 

" Dr. Currie," says Gilbert Burns, " knowing the events of the latter 
years of my brother's life, only from the reports which had been propagat- 
ed, and thinking it necessary, lest the candour of his work should be called 
in question, to state the substance of these reports, has given a very exag- 
gerated view of the failings of my brother's life at that period, which is cer- 
tainly to be regretted." — " I love Dr. Currie," says the Rev. James Gray, 
already more than once referred to, but 1 love the memory of Burns more 



cfJ LIF1£ OF ROBERT BURNS. 

and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth 
The poet of The Cottar s Saturday Night, who felt all the charms of the 
humble piety and virtue which he sung, is charged (in Dr Curries Nar- 
rative), with vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degrad- 
ed of his species. As 1 knew him durmg that period of his life emphati- 
cally called his evil days, / am enabled to speak from my own observation. 
It is not my intention to extenuate his errors, because they were combined 
with genius ; on that account, they were only the more dangerous, be- 
cause the more seductive, and deserve the more severe reprehension ; but 
I shall likewise claim that nothing may be said in malice even against hinti 

It came under my own view professionally, that he superin- 

tenaea the education of his children with a degree of care that I have ne- 
ver seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bo- 
som of his family he spent many a delightful hour in directing the studies 
of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 1 have frequently found him 
explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the Eng- 
lish poets, from Shakspeare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples oi 
heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English his- 
torians I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like 
these are consistent with habitual drintheuDess ' 

" It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of hira. 
He was of a social and convivial nature. He was courted by all classes ot 
men for the fascinating powers of his conversation, but over his social scene 
uncontrolled passion never presided. Over the social bowl, his wit flashed 
for hours together, penetrating whatever it struck, like the fire from hea- 
ven ; but even in the hour oT' thoughtless gaity and merriment, 1 never 
knew it tainted by indecency. It was playful or caustic by turns, follow- 
ing an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by its rapidity, or 
amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural combinations, 
but never, within my observation, disgusting by its grossness. In his 
morning hours, 1 never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last 
night's mtemperance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was 
the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. From 
his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety assumed a more ce- 
lestial mien. \\ hile his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and feeling, 
and his voice attuned to the very passion which he wished to communicate, 
It would hardly have been possible to conceive any being more interesting 
and delightful. 1 may likewise add, that to the very end of his life, reading 
was his favourite amusement. I have never known any man so intimately 
acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the 
poets by heart The prose authors he could quote either in their own 
words, or clothe their ideas in language more beautiful than their own. 
Nor was there ever any decay in any of the powers of his mind. To the 
last day of his life, his judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh 
and vigorous, as when he composed The Cottar s Saturday Night. The 
truth is, that Burns was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soon becomes 
besotted, and is shunned even Dy the convivial. Had he been so, he could 
not long have continued the idol of every party. It will be freely confes- 
sed, that the hour of enjoyment was often prolonged beyond the limit 
marked by prudence ; but what man will venture to ajffirm, that in situa- 
tions where he was conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could dt all 
imes have listened to her voice } 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cm 

*' riie men with whom he generaWy associated, wert not c-f the lowest 
order He numoered among his intimate friends, many of the most respec 
table inhabitants of Dumfries and the vicinity. Several of those were at 
tached to him by ties that the hand of calumnj^, busy as it was., could ne 
ver snap asunder. They admired the poet for his genius, and loved the 
man for the candour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His earl} 
friends clung to him through good and bad report, with a zeal and fidelity 
that prove their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated to his disad- 
vantage. Among them were some of the most distinguished characters in 
this country, and not a few females, eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. 
They were proud of his friendship, and cherished liim to the last moment 
of his existence. He was endeared to them even by his misfortunes, and 
they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration which virtue 
alone inspires." 

'Part of Mr. Gray's lettet- is omitted, only because it touches on subjects, 
as to which Mr. Findlater's statement must be considered as of not merely 
sufficient, but the very highest authority. 

" My connexion with Robert Burns," says that most respectable man, 
" commenced immediately after his admission into the Excise, and con- 
tinued to the hour of his deatli. * In all that time, the superintendence of 
his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial pro 
vince, and it may be supposed that 1 would not be an inattentive observer 
of the general conduct of a man and a poet, so celebrated by his country 
men. In the former capacity, he was exemplary in his attention ; and 
was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance : as a proof of 
which, it may not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a letter from 
him to myself, in a case of only seeming inattention. — ' I know. Sir, and re- 
gret deeply, that this business glances with a malign aspect on my charac- 
ter as an officer ; but, as I am really innocent in the adair, and as the gentle- 
man is known to be an illicit dealer, and particularly as this is the single in- 
stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or impropriety in my conduct as 
an officer, I shall be peculiarly unfortunate if my character shall fall a sa- 
crifice to the dark manoeuvres of a smuggler.' — This of itself affords more 
than a presumption of his attention to business, as it cannot be supposed he 
would have written in such a style to me, but from the impulse of a consci- 
ous rectitude in this department of his duty. Indeed, it was not till near 
the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and 
this was amply accounted for in the pressure of disease and accumulating 
infirmities. 1 will further avow, that 1 never saw him, which was very fre- 
quently while he lived at Elliesland, and still more so, almost every day, 
after he removed to Dumfries, but in hours of business he wa quite him- 
self, and capable of discharging the d aties of his office ; nor was he ever 
known to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor in a fore- 
noon. ... 1 have seen Burns in all his various phases, in hisconviviaj 
moments, in his sober moods, and in the bosom of his family ; indeed, I 
believe I saw more of him than any other individual had occasion to see^ 
after he became an Excise officer, and 1 never beheld any thing like the 
gross enormities with which he is ncM' charged: That when het down in 
an evening with a few friends whom he liked, he was apt to prolong the 
social hour beyond the bounds which prudence would dictate, is unqucs 

• Mr. Findlater watched V\ Bun-s the iii^jht before he died. 



civ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tior\able ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seeiii other 
wise than attentive and affectionate to a high degree." 

Tliese statements are entitled to every consideration : they come from 
men altogether incapable, for any purpose, of wilfully stating that which 
they know to be untrue. 

To whatever Burns's excesses amounted, they were, it is obvious, and 
that frequently, the subject of rebuke and remonstrance even from his own 
dearest friends. That such reprimands should have been received at times 
with a strange mixture of remorse and indignation, none that have consi- 
dered the nervous susce])tibility and haughtiness of Burns's character can 
hear with surprise. But this was only when the good advice was oral. No 
one knew better than he how to answer the v/ritten homilies of such per- 
sons as M'ere most likely to take the freedom of admonishing him on points 
of such delicacy ; nor is there any thing in all his correspondence more 
amusing than his reply to a certain solemn lecture of William Nicoll. . . 
'* O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon 
of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! how infinitely is thy puddle- 
headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy 
supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined 
rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wictch, of whom the 
zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple co- 
pulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble 
ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the 
arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, may it be my 
portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa- 
ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipod of folly, and magnet 
among the sages, the wise and witty Willy Nicoll ! Amen ! amen ! Yea, 
so be it ! 

" For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing !" &c. &c. &c. 

To how many that have moralized over the life and death of Burns, 
might not such a Tu quoq?ie be addressed ! 

The strongest argument in favour of those who denounce the statements 
of Heron, Currie, and their fellow biographers, concerning the habits /f the 
poet, during the latter years of his career, as culpably and egregious^y ex- 
aggerated, still remains to be considered. On the whole, lurns gave sa- 
tisfaction by his manner of executing the duties of his station in the reve- 
nue service ; he, moreover, as Mr. Gray tells us, (and upon this ground 
Mr. Gray could not possibly be mistaken), took a lively interest in the edu- 
cation of his children, and spent more hours in their private tuition than 
fathers who have more leisure than his excisemanship left him, are often 
in the custom of so bestowing. — " He was a kind and attentive father, and 
took great deliglit in spending his evenings in the cultivation of the minds 
of his children. Their education was the grand object of his life, and he 
did not, like most parents, think it sufficient to send them to public sehoois ; 
he was their private instructor, and even at that early age, bestowed great 
pains in training their minds to habits of thought and reflection, and in 
keeping them pure from every form of vice. This he considered as a sa- 
cred duty, and never, to the period of his last illness, relaxed in his dili- 
gence. With his eldest son, a boy of not more than nine years of age, he 
had read many of the favourite poets, and some of the best historians in 
Dur language ; and what is more remarkable, gave him considerable aid in 
ihe study of Latin. This boy afe; ended the Grammar School of Dumfries 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. c* 

and soon attracted ray notice by the st .-engtli of his talent, and the a. dour 
of his ambition. Before he had been a year at school, I thought it right 
to advance him a form, and he began to read Caesar, and gave me transla- 
tion^ df that author of such beauty as I confess surprised me. On inquiry, 
I foi nd that his father made him turn over his dictionary, till he was able 
to translate to him the passage in such a way that he could gather the au- 
thor's meaning, and that it was to him he owed that polished and forcible 
English with which I was so greatly struck. I have mentioned this inci- 
dent merely to show what minute attention he paid to this imp ;tant 
branch of parental duty." * Lastly, although to all men's regret he wrote, 
after his removal t ) Dumfriesshire, only one poetical piece of considerable 
length, [Tarn d Slinnfer'^ his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to 
Johnson's Museum, and to the collection of Mr. George ITiomson, furnish 
undeniable proof that in whatever ^Va' of dissipation he unhappily indulg- 
ed, he never could possibly have sunk into any thing like that habitual 
grossness of manners and sottish degradation of mind, which the writers in 
question have not hesitated to hold up to the commiseration of mankind. 

Of his letters written at Elliesland and Dumfries, nearly three octavo 
volumes have been already printed by Currie and Cromek ; and it would 
be easy to swell the collection to double this extent. Enough, however, 
has been published to enable every reader to judge for himself of the cha- 
racter of Burns's style of epistolary composition. The severest criticism 
bestowed on it has been, that it is too elaborate — that, however natural 
the feelings, the expression is frequently more studied and artificial than 
belongs to that species of composition. Be this remark altogether just in 
point of taste, or otherwise, the fact on which it is founded, furnishes 
strength to our present position. The poet produced in these years a great 
body of elaborate prose- writing. 

We have already had occasion to notice some of his contributions to 
Johnson's Museum. He continued to the last month of his life to take a 
lively interest in that work ; and besides writing for it some dozens of ex- 
cellent original songs, his diligence in collecting ancient pieces hitherto 
unpublished, and his taste and skill in eking out fragments, were largely^ 
and most happily exerted, all along, for its benefit. x^'Ir. Cromek saw 
among Johnson's papers, no fewer than 184 of the pieces which enter into 
the collection, in Burns's handwriting. 

His connexion with the more important work of Mr. Thomson commenc- 
ed in September 1792 ; and Mr. Gray justly says, that whoever considers 
his correspondence with the editor, and the collection itself, must be satis- 
fied, that from that time till the commencement of his last illness, not 
many days ever passed over his head without the production of some new 
stanzas for its pages Besides old materials, for the most part embellished 
with lines, if not verses of his own, and a whole body of hints, suggestions, 
and criticisms, Burns gave Mr. Thomson about sixty original songs. The 
songs in this collection are by many eminent critics placed decidedly at 
the head of all our poet's performances : it is by none disputed that very 
many of them are worthy of his most felicitous inspiration. He bestowed 
much more care on them than on his contributions to the Museum ; and 
the taste and feeling of the editor secured the work against any intrusions 
of that ovei-warm element which was too apt to mingle in his amatory ef- 

• Letter from the Rev. James Gray to Mr. Gilbert Bums. See his Edition, vol. I At^ 
pendix, No. t. P^ 



cvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

fusions. Burns knew that he was now engaged on a work destined for the 
eye and ear of refinement ; he laboured throughout, under the salutary feel- 
ing, " virginibiis puerisque canto ;'' and the consequences have been hap- 
py indeed for his own fame — for the literary taste, and the national music, 
of Scotland ; and, what is of far higher importance, the moral and national 
feelings of his countrymen. 

In almost all these productions — certainly in all that deserve to be placed 
in the first rank of his compositions — Burns made use of his native dialect. 
He did so, too, in opposition to the advice of almost all the lettered cor« 
respondents he had — more especially of Dr. Moore, who, in his own novels 
never ventured on. more than a few casual specimens of Scottish colloquy 
—following therein the example of his illustrious predecessor Smollett ; 
and not foreseeing that a triumph over English prejudice, which Smollett 
might have achieved, had he pleased to make the effort, was destined to be 
the prize of Burns's perseverance in obeying the dictates of native taste 
and judgment. Our poet received such suggestions, for the most part, in 
silence — not choosing to argue with others on a matter which concerned 
only his own feelings ; but in writing to Mr. Thomson, he had no occasion 
either to conceal or disguise his sentiments. " These English songs," 
says he, " gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language 
that I have of my native tongue ;"* and again, " so much for nambj'^- 
pamby. I may, after all, try my hand at it in Scots verse. There I am al- 
ways most at home." f — He, besides, would have considered it as a bort ol 
national crime to do any thing that must tend to divorce the music of his 
native land from her peculiar idiom. The " genius loci" was never wor- 
shipped m.ore fervently than by Burns. " I am such an enthusiast," says 
he, '^ that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, 1 
made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its 
rise, LocJmber and the Braes of Balleuden excepted. So far as the locality, 
either from the title of the air or the tenor of the song, could be ascer- 
tained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scottish 
Muse." With such feelings, he was not likely to touch with an irreverent 
hand the old fabric of our national song, or to meditate a lyrical revolution 
for the pleasure of strangers. " There is," says he, :j: " a naivete, a pas- 
toral simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, 
which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and 1 will add, to every ge- 
nuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness of 
our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more let 
me give you :■ — Whatever Mr. Fleyel does, let him not alter one iota of 
the original airs ; 1 mean in the song departm.ent ; but let our Scottish na- 
tional music preserve its native features. They are, 1 own, frequently 
wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- 
city, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect." § 

Of the delight with which Burns laboured for Mr. Thomson's Collection, 
his letters contain some lively descriptions. '^ You cannot imagine," says 
he, 7th April 1793, " how much this business has added to my enjoy- 
ments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book and ballad- 

• Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 111. -}- Ibid." p. 80. % Ibid. p. 38. 

8 It may amuse the reader to hear, that in spite of all Burns's success in the use of his native 
dialect, even an eminently spirited bookseller to whom the manuscript of \Vaverley was sub- 
mitted, hesitated for some time about publishing it, on account of the Scots dialogue interwo. 
t«n in the uoveL 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cvii 

making ar<5 now as completely my hobbyhorse as ever fc?t ification wag 
Uncle Toby's ; so 111 e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my 
race. (God grant I may take the right side of the winning-post), and then, 
cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been hap- 
py, I shall say or sing, ' Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last 
looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall 
be * Good night, and joy be wi' you, a'.' " * 

" Until I am complete master of a tune in my own singing, such as it is, 
I can never," says Burns, " compose for it. My way is this : I consider 
the poetic sentirr.ent correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, 
— then choose my theme, — compose one stanza. When that is composed, 
which is generally the most difficult part of the business, 1 walk out, sit 
down now and then, — look out for objects in nature round me that are in 
unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my 
bosom, — humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have fram- 
ed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fire- 
side of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper ; swinging at in- 
tervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own 
critical strictures, as my pen goes. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- 
variably my way — What cursed egotism !" f 

In this correspondence with Mr. Thomson, and in Cromek's later publi- 
cation, the reader will find a world of interesting details about the particu- 
lar circumstances under which these immortal songs were severally writ- 
ten. They are all, or almost all, in fact, part and parcel of the poet's per- 
sonal history. No man ever made his muse more completely the compa- 
nion of his own individual life. A new flood of light has just been poured 
on the same subject, in Mr. Allan Cunningham's " Collection of Scottish 
Songs ;" unless, therefore, I were to transcribe volumes, and all popular 
volumes too, it is impossible to go into the details of this part of the poet's 
history. The reader must be contented with a few general memoranda ; 

" Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in- 
spire a man with life, and love, and joy, — could fire him with enthusiasm, 
or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book? No, no. When- 
ever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal 
to your divine airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- 
nation ? Tout au contraire. I have a glorious recipe, the very one that for 
his own use was invented by the Divinity of healing and poetry, when erst 
he piped to the flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of admir- 
ing a fine woman." ;}: 

" I can assure you I was never more in earnest. — Conjugal love is a pas- 
sion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not 
make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, 

" M'here love is liberty, and nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument, of which the gamut is scanty 
and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers 
equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still 1 am a 
rery poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness ot 
Jie beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades m;^ 

• Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 57- + Ibid. p. 119. 



cvif: LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

so«l ; and — whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever raptures they 
might give me — yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having 
these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and generosity 
disdains the purchase." * 

Of all Burns's love songs, the best, in his own opinion, was that which 
begins, 

" Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 
A place where boay saw na*.*' 

Mr. Cunningham says, *' if the poet thought so, I am sorry for it ;" while 
the Reverend Hamilton Paul fully concurs in the author's own estimate oi 
the performance. 

There is in the same collection a love song, which unites the suffrages, 
and ever will do so, of all men. It has furnished Byron with a motto^ 
and Sco** has said that that motto is " worth a thousand romances.'* 

*' Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 

There are traditions which connect Burns with the heroines of these be- 

vritching songs. 

I envy no one the task of inquiring minutely in how far these traditions 
rest on the foundation of truth. They refer at worst to occasional errors. 
" Many insinuations," says Mr. Gray, " have been made against the poet> 
character as a husband, but without the slightest proof- and I might pass 
from the charge with that neglect which it merits ; but I am happy to say 
that I have in exculpation the direct evidence of Mrs. Burns herself, who, 
among many amiable and respectable qualities, ranks a veneration for the 
memory of her departed husband, whom she never names but in terms of 
the profoundest respect and the deepest regret, to lament his misfortunes, 
or to extol his kindnesses to herself, not as the momentary overflowings of 
the heart in a season of penitence for offences generously forgiven, but an 
habitual tenderness, which ended only with his life. I place this evidence, 
which I am proud to bring forward on her own authority, agamst a thou- 
sand anonymous calumnies." f 

Among the effusions, not amatory, which our poet contributed to Mr. 
Thomson's Collections the famous song of Bannockburn holds the first place. 
We have already seen in how lively a manner Burns's feelings were kindled 
when he visited that glorious field. According to tradition, the tune play- 
ed when Bruce led his troops to the charge, was " Hey tuttie tattie ;" 
and it was humming this old air as he rode by himself through Glenken, a 
wild district in Galloway, during a terrific storm of wind and rain, that the 
poet composed his immortal lyric in its first and noblest form. This la one 
more instance of his delight in the sterner aspects of nature. 



' Come, winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree — " 



'* There is hardly," says he in one of his letters, " there is scarcely apy 
earthly object gives me mere — I do not know if I should call it ple«giire 

• Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 191. 

i> Letter in Gilbert Burns's Edition, voL I. Appendix, p. 437. 



LIFE OF KOBMxT 1UJH\>. 



nj 



—but something whicLi exalts me, something which enraptures me — ihan 
to walk in the sheltered side >f a wood in a cloudy winter day, and hear the 
stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain, it is my 
best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm tv 
Him, who, to use the pompous language of the Hebrew Bard, ' walks on 
the wings of the wind.' " — To the last, his best poetry was »^:,j^ijced amidai 
scenes of soienm desoiation. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Cc**iNts The poet's mortal period approaches — His peculiar temperament — Symptoms of 

premature old age — These not diminished hy narrow circumstances^ by chagrin from neijlecc, 
and by the death of a Daughter — The poet misses public patronage : and even the fair fruita 
of hi's ow I genivs — the appripriatton nf which is debated for the casuists who yielded to him 
merely the shell — His magnanimity when death is at hand; his interviews, conversations, 
and addresses as a dying man — Dies, 2 1 st July 1 796 — Public funeral, at which many at" 
tend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- 
knowledge the poety living — His family munificently provided for by the public — Analysis oj 
character — His integrity y religious state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writinos 
iy Scotty Campbell, Byron, and other». 



** I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's tear.** 

We are drawing near the close of this great poet's mortal i^areer ; and I 
would fain hope the details of the last chapter may have prepared the hu- 
mane reader to contemplate it with sentiments of sorrow, [Jure and unde- 
based with any considerable intermixture of less genial feelings. 

For some years before Burns was lost to his country, it is sufficientjj 
plain that he had been, on political grounds, an object of suspicion and dis- 
trust to a large portion of the population that had most opportunity of ob- 
serving him. The mean subalterns of party had, it is very easy to suppose, 
delighted in decrying him on pretexts, good, bad, and indifferent, equally — 
to their superiors ; and hence, who will not willingly believe it ? the tem- 
porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the 
essence of which Dr. Currie, no doubt, thought it his duty, as a biographer, 
to extract and circulate. 

A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once 
had occasion to refer to, has often told me, that he was seldom more grie- 
ved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, about this 
time, to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady 
side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay 
with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together for the 
festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. 
The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him 
to cross the street, said, ♦' Nay, nay, my young friend, — that's all over 
now ;" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's 
pathetic ballad, — 

" His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, 
Hisauld ane look'd better than mony ane's new; 
But now he lets't wear ony way it wid hing. 
And casts himsell dowie upon the corn-binif. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxi 

* O were we young, as we ance hae been, 
We sud hae been galloping doun on yon green. 
And linking it ower the lilywhite lea, — 
And werena my heart light I wad die.''* 

[t was little in Burns's character to let his feelings on certain subjects, es- 
cape in this fashion. He, immediately after citing these verses, assumed 
the sprightliness of his most pleasing manner ; and taking his young friend 
home with him, entertained him very agreeably until the hour of the ball 
arrived, with a bowl of his usual potation, and Bonnie Jean's singing of 
some verses which he had recently composed. 

The untimely death of one who, had he lived to any thing like the usual 
term of human existence, might have done so much to increase his fame 
as a poet, and to purify and dignify his character as a man, was, it is too 
probable, hastened by his own intemperances and imprudences : but it 
seems to be extremely improbable, that, even if his manhood hcd been a 
course of saintlike virtue in all respects, the irritable and nervous bodily 
constitution which he inherited from his father, shaken as it was by the 
toils and miseries of his ill-starred youth, could have sustained, to any 
thing like the psalmist's " allotted span," the exhausting excitements of an 
intensely poetical temperament. Since the first pages of this narrative were 
sent to the press, I have heard from an old acquaintance of the bard, who 
often shared his bed with him at Mossgiel, that even at that early period, 
when intemperance assuredly had had nothing to do with the matter, those 
ominous symptoms of radical disorder in the digestive system, the " palpi- 
tation and suffocation" of which Gilbert speaks, were so regularly his noc- 
turnal visitants, that it was his custom to have a great tub of cold water 
by his bedside, into which he usually plunged more than once in the course 
of the night, thereby procuring instant, though but shortlived relief On 
a frame thus originally constructed, and thus early tried with most se- 
vere afflictions, external and internal, what must not have been, under any 
subsequent course of circumstances, the effect of that exquisite sensibi- 
lity of mind, but for which the world would never have heard any thing 
either of the sins or the sorrows, or the poetry of Burns ! 

" The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe," * (thus writes the 
poet himself), " often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be me- 
lancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were pen- 
ned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative 
view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but 
how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger 
imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them will ever 
engender a more ungovernable set of passions, than are the usual lot of 
man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as 
arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper tt 
his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows 
in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — in short 
send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from 
the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man 
iving for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure 
0^ his woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, and 
you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet." 

* Letter to Miss Chalmers in 1793. 



cxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

In these few short sentences, as it appears to me, Buri.s has traced his owh 
character far better than any one else has done it since — But with tlih lot 
what pleasures were not mingled? — " To you, Madam," he proceeds, " I 
need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestoA^s to counterbalance 
this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; sh(^ 
has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels oi 
wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting 
them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the 
whirling vortex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must own that all our 
happiness on earth is not worthy the name — that even the holy hermit's 
solitary prospect of pardisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, ris- 
ing over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the nameless 
raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of man !" 

It is common to say of those who over-indulge themselves in material 
stimulants, that they live fast ; what wonder that the career of the poet's 
thick-coming fancies should, in the immense majority of cases, be rapid 
too? 

That Burns lived fast, in both senses of the phrase, we have abundant 
evidence from himself; and that the more earthly motion was somewhat ac- 
celerated as it approached the close, we may believe, without finding it at all 
necessary to mingle anger with our sorrow. " Even in his earliest poems," 
as Mr. Wordsworth says, in a beautiful passage of his letter to Mr. Gray, 
*' through the veil of assumed habits and pretended qualities, enough of 
the real man appears to show, that he was conscious of sufficient cause to 
dread his own passions, and to bewail his errors ! We have rejected as false 
sometimes in the latter, and of necessity as false in the spirit, many of the 
testimonies that others have borne against him : — but, by his< own hand — 
in words the import of which cannot be mistaken — it has been recorded 
that the order of his life but faintly corresponded with the clearness of his 
views It is probable that he would have proved a still greater poet if, by 
strength of reason, he could have controlled the propensities which his sen- 
sibility engendered ; but he would have been a poet of a different class : 
and certain it is, had that desirable restraint been early established, many 
peculiar beauties which enrich his verses could never have existed, and 
many accessary influences, which contribute greatly to their effect, would 
have been wanting. For instance, the momentous truth of the passage — 

*' One point must still be greatly dark. 

The moving why they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Then gently scan your brother nian. 

Still gentlier sister woman — 
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang ; 

To step aside is human," 

could not possibly have been conveyed with such pathetic torce by any 
poet that ever lived, speaking in his own voice ; unless it w ere felt that, 
like Burns, he was a man who preached from the text of his own errors • 
and whose wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might have risen from aeed 
sown froni above, was in fact a scion from the root of personal suffering.' 

In bow far the " thoughtless follies" of the poet did actually hasten his 
era, it is needless to conjecture. They had their share, unquestionably, 
aiong with other influences which it would be inhuman to characterise afc 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxii 

mere follies — sucli, for example, as that general depression of spirits which 
haurtedhim from his youth, and, in all likelihood, sat more heavilj or 
such a being as Burns than a man of plain common sense might guess, — or 
even a casual expression of discouraging tend^^ncy from the persons on 
whose good-will all hopes of substantial advancement in the scale of world- 
ly promotion depended, — or that partial exclusion from the species of so- 
ciety our poet had been accustomed to adorn and delight, which, from 
however inadequate causes, certainly did occur during some of the latter 
years of his life. — All such sorrows as these must have acted with twofold 
tyranny upon Burns ; harassing, in the first place, one of the most sensitive 
minds that ever filled a human bosom, and, alas ! by consequence, tempting 
to additional excesses. How he struggled against the tide of his misery, let 
the following letter speak. — It was written February 25, 1794, and addres- 
sed to Mr. Alexander Cunningham, an eccentric being, but generous and 
faithful in his friendship to Burns, and, when Burns was no more, to his 
family. — " Canst thou minister," says the poet, " to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without 
one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may 
overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tor- 
tures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the 
blast - If thou canst not do the least of these, why would'st thou disturb 
me in my miseries, with tliy inquiries after me ? For these two months I 
have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were ab ori- 
gine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my 
existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary 
share in the ruin of these ***** times — los>:es which, though trifling, were 
yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times 
could only be envied hj a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I 
have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would 
have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself, I 
was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. 
Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfor- 
tune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a 
certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of courage, 
fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sen- 
timents, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure 
them, are yet, 1 am convinced, original and component parts of the human 
soul; tho&e senses of the mi7id, \i \ may he allowed the expression, which 
connect us with, and link us to those awful obscure realities — an all power- 
ful and equally beneficent God — and a world to come, beyond death and 
the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams 
on the field ; — the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which 
time can never cure. 

" I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked 
on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick 
o' the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many; or at most as an uncer- 
tain obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with which 
they are fools if tln^y give themselves much to do. Nor would 1 quarrel 
with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a mu- 
sical eax. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and tc 



cxiv LIFE OF KOBERT BURNS. 

Dtliers, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this poii t ot view 
and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child ot 
mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sen- 
timent, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments Let me flatter 
myself tliat this sweet little fellow who is just now running about mj'- desk, 
win be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- 
lighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him, 
wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the 
growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth 
of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's 
God. His soul, by swift, delighted degrees, is rapt above this sublunary 
spliere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious 
f»nthusiasm of Thomson, 

* These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God — The rolling year 
Is full of Thee ;' 

and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. — These are 
no idetil pleasures ; they are real delights ; and I ask what of the delights 
among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal to them r* And they 
have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her 
own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witness- 
ing, judging, and approving God." 

They who have been told that Burns was ever a degraded being — who 
have permitted themselves to believe that his only consolations were those 
of '•' the opiate guilt applies to grief, " will do well to pause over this noble 
letter and judge for themselves. The enemy under which he was destined 
to sink, had already beaten in the outworks of his constitution when these 
lines were penned. The reader has already had occasion to observe, that 
Burns had in those closing years of his life to struggle almost continually 
with pecuniary difficulties, than which nothing could have been more like- 
ly to pour bitterness intolerable into the cup of his existence His lively 
imagination exaggerated to itself every real evil ; and this among, and per- 
haps above, all the rest ; at least, in many of his letters we find him alluding 
to the probability of his being arrested for debts, which we now know to 
have been of very trivial amount at the worst, which we also know he him- 
self lived to discharge to the utm.ost farthing, and in regard to which it is 
impossible to doubt that his personal friends in Dumfries would have at all 
times been ready to prevent the law taking its ultimate course. This last 
conside-ration, however, was one which would have given slender relief to 
Burns. How he shri \k with horror and loathing from the sense of pecu- 
niary obligation, no matter to whom, we have had abundant indications al- 
ready 

The following extract from one of his letters to Mr. Macmurdo, dated 
December 1793, will speak for itself: — " tSir, it is said thyt we take the 
greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high 
compliment in the manner in which 1 am going to apply tiie remark. I 
have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. — Here is 
Ker's account, and here are six guineas; and novi^, i don t owe a shilling 
to man, or woman either. Hut for these damned dirty, dog s eared little 
pages, (bank-notes), I had done myself the honour to have waited on 
vou long ago. Independent of the obligations yonr hospitality has lai© 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS Cx\ 

me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man ari 
gentleman of itself was fully as much as 1 could ever make head against 
but to owe you money too, was more than I could face. 

The question naturally arises : Burns was all this while pouring out his 
beautiful songs for the Museum of Johnson and the greater work of Thom- 
son ; how did he happen to derive no pecuniary advantages from this con- 
tinual exertion of his genius in a form of composition so eminently calcu- 
lated for popularity ? Nor, indeed, is it an easy matter to answer this very 
obvious question. The poet himself, in a letter to Mr. ('arfrae, dated 
1 789, speaks thus : — " The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, 1 
hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations 
are most justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate has denied him- 
self to reap." And yet, so far from looking to Mr. Johnson for any pecu- 
niary remuneration for the very laborious part he took in his work, it ap- 
pears from a passage in Cromek' , R cliques, that the poet asked a single 
copy of the Museum to give to a fair friend, by way of a great favour tc 
himself — and that that copy and his own were really all he ever received 
at the hands of the publisher. Of the secret history of .Johnson and his 
book I know nothing; but the Correspondence of l-urns with Mr. Thomson 
contains curious enough details concerning his connexion with that gentle- 
man's more important undertaking. At the outset, .September 171j-^, we 
find Mr. Thomson saying, " We will esteem your poetical assistance a 
particular favour, besides paying any reasonable price you shall please to 
demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we 
are resolved to save neither pains nor expense on the publication." To 
which Burns replies immediately, " As to any remuneration, you may think 
my songs either above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one 
or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embai:Ji in your un- 
dertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, Sec would be downright pros- 
titution of soul. A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I 
shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, Gude speea 
the work." The next time we meet with any hint as to money matters in 
the Correspondence is in a letter of Mr. Thomson 1st July 17 93, where 
he says, " 1 cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exqui- 
site new songs you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a poor re- 
turn for what you have done ; as 1 shall be benefited by the publication, 
you must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude, and to repeat 
it afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven, 
if you do, our correspondence is at an end." To which letter (it inclosed 
i 5) Burns thus replies : — " I assure you my dear Sir, that you truly hurt 
me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. How- 
ever, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to any more traffic of 
that debtor and creditor kind, 1 swear by that honour which crowns the 
upright statue of Robert Burns's integrity — on the least motion of it, I 
will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment com^ 
mence entire stranger to you. Burns's character for generosity of senti- 
ment and independence of mind will, 1 trust, long outlive any of his wants 
which the cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least, I will take care that 
Buch a character he shall deserve." — In November 1 794, we find iMr. Thom. 
son writing to Burns, " Do not, I beseech you, return any books." — In May 
1795, " You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited 
the drawing from me ;" (this was a drawing of The Cottar's Saturday Night 



cxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

by Allan) ; " I do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem 
and respect you, for the liberal and kind manner in which you have enter 
ed into the spirit of my undertaking, which could not have hppry perfectei. 
without 3^ou. So I beg you would not make a fool of me again by speak 
ing of obligation." In February 1796, we have Burns acknowledging a 

' handsome elegant present to Mrs. B ," which was a worsted shawl. 

Lastly, on the l'2th July of the same year, (that is, little more than a week 
oefore Burns died), he writes to Mr. Thomson in these terms : — -' After 
all my boasted independence, cursed necessity compels me to implore you 
for five pounds- A cruel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an ac- 
count, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process; 
and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that 
sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness ; but the hor- 
rors of a jail have put me half distKacted. — I do not ask this gratuitously , 
for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen." To 
which Mr. Thomson replies— " Ever since I received your melancholy let- 
ter by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in what manner 1 could en- 
deavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pe- 
cuniary offer ; but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, 
and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution. 
I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the 1 2th, 
and with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed send- 
ing. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but one day for your 

sake ! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume 

of poetry - Do not shun this method of obtaining the value of 

your labour ; rem.ember Pope published the Iliad by subscription. Think 
of this, my dear Burns, and do not think me intrusive with my advice." 

Such are the details of this matter, as recorded in the correspondence 
of the two individuals concerned. Some time after Burns's death, Mr. 
Thomson was attacked on account of his behaviour to the poet, in a novel 
called A'udilia. In Professor Walker's Memoirs of Burns, which appeared 
in 18!6, Mr. Thomson took the opportunity of defending himself thus : — 
" I have been attacked with much bitterness, and accused of not endea- 
rourmg to remunerate Burns for the songs which he wrote for my collec- 
tion ; although there is the clearest evidence of the contrary, both in the 
printed correspondence between the poet and me, and in the public testi- 
mony of Dr. Currie. My assailant, too, without knowing any thing of the 
matter, states, that I had enriched myself by the labours of Burns ; and, 
of course, that my want of generosity was inexcusable. Now, the fact is, 
that notwithstanding the united labours of all the men of genius who have 
enriched my collection, I am not even yet compensated for the precious 
time consumed by me in poring over musty volumes, and in corresp mding 
with every amateur and poet by .whose means 1 expected to make any va- 
luable additions to our national music and song ; — for the exertion and mo- 
ney it cost me to obtain accompaniments from the greatest masters of har 
mony in Vienna ; — and for the sums paid to engravers, printers, and others 
On this subject, the testimony of Mr. Preston in London, a man of un- 
questionable and well-known character, who has printed the music for 
every copy of my work, may be more satisfactory than any thing I cpn 
say : In August 1 809, he wrote me as follows : ' I am concerned at th« 
very unwa ^antable attack which has been made upon you by the author 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxvii 

t)( Nirhilin ; nothing could be more unjust than to say y<iu had enriched 
yourself by Burns's labours ; for the whole concern, though it includes th^ 
labours of Haydn, has scarcelj' afforded a compensation for the various ex- 
penses, and for the time employed on the work. When a work obtains 
any celebrity, publishers are generally supposed to derive a profit ten times 
beyond the reality ; the sale is greatly magnified, and the expenses are not 
in the least taken into consideration. It is truly vexatious to be so grossly 
and scandalously abused for conduct, the very reverse of which has been 
manifest through the whole transaction.' — Were I the sordid man that the 
anonymous author calls me, I had a most inviting opportunity to profit 
much more than I did by the Ij'-rics of our great bard. He had written 
above fifty songs expressly for my work ; they were in my possession un- 
published at his death ; I had the right and the power of retaining them 
till I should be ready to publish them ; but when I was informed that an 
edition of the poet's works was projected for the benefit of his family, I put 
them in immediate possession of the v/hole of his songs, as well as letters, 
and thus enabled Dr. Currie to complete the four volumes which were sold 
for the familj^'s behoof to Messrs. Cadell and Davies. And I" have the sa- 
tisfaction of knowing, that the most zealous friends of the family, Mr. Cun- 
nino-hame, Mr. Syme, and Dr. Currie, and the poet's own brother, consi- 
dered my sacrifice of the prior right of publishin^^ the songs, as no ungrate- 
ful return for the disinterested and liberal conduct of the poet. Accord- 
ingly, Mr. Gilbert Burns, in a letter to me, which alone might suffice for 
an answer to all the novelist's abuse, thus expresses himself : — ' If ever 
I come to Rdinburgh, I will certainly call on a person whose handsome con 
duct to my brother's family has secured my esteem, and confirmed me in 
the opinion, that musical taste and talents have a close connexion with the 
harmony o^ the moral feelings.' Nothing is farther from my thoughts 
than to claim any merit for what I did. 1 never would have said a word 
on the subject, but for the harsh and groundless accusation which has been 
brought forward, either by ignorance or animosity, and which I have long 
suffered to remain unnoticed, from my great dislike to any public ap- 
pearance." 

This statement of Mr. Thomson supersedes the necessity of any addi- 
tional remarks, (writes Professor Walker). When the public is satisfied j 
when the relations of Burns are grateful ; and, above all, when the delicate 
mind of Mr. Thomson is at peace with itself in contemplating his conduct, 
there can be no necessity for a nameless novelist to contradict them. 

So far, Mr. Walker : — V\ hy Burns, who was of opinion, when he v/rote 
his letter to Mr Carfrae. that " no profits are more honourable than those 
of the labours of a man of genius," and whose own notirns of independence 
had sustained no shock in the receipt of hundreds of pounds from Creech, 
•should have spurned the suggestion of pecuniary recompense from Thom- 
son, it is no easy matter to explain : nor do F profess to understand why Mr. 
Thomson took so little pains to argue the matter in hmhie with the poet, 
and convince him, that the time which he himself considered as fairly en- 
titled to be paid for by a common bookseller, ought of right to be valued 
and acknowledged on similar terms by the editor and proprietor of a book 
containing both songs and m.usic. They order these things differently 
now : a living lyric poet whom none will place in a higher rank than Burns, 
has long, it is understood, been in the habit of receiving about as much 
tnoiicj' annually for an annual handful of songs, as was ever naid to our 
">ard ^'w the whole body of his writings. 



cxviu 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Of the increasing Irritability ofour poet's temperameni;, amidst those trou 
bles, external and internal, that preceded his last illness, his letters furnish 
proofs, to dwell on which could only inflict unnecessary pain. Let one ex 
ample suffice. — " Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business; 
and may })robabiy keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine em 

ployment for a })oet's pen ! Here 1 sit, altogether Novemberish, a d- • 

melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me 
to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and 
fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors 
of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it 
was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — ' And behold, 
on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' Fray that 
wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B." 

Towards the close cf i79o Burns was. as has been previously mention- 
ed, employed as an acting Supervisor of Excise. This was apparently o 
step to a permanent situation of that higher and more lucrative class ; and 
from thence, there was every reason to believe, the kind patronage of Mr. 
Graham might elevate him yet farther. I'hese hopes, however, were mingl- 
ed and darkened with sorrow. For four months of that year his youngest 
child lingered through an illness of which every week promised to be the 
last ; ^nd she was finally cut off when the poet, who had watched her with 
anxious tenderness, was from home on professional business. This was a 
severe blow, and his own nerves, though as yet he had not taken any seri- 
ous alarm about his ailments, were ill fitted to withstand it. 

" There had need," he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December, " there 
had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and 
father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares, i cannot describe 
to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. 1 see a 
train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on 
what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If i am ni[.t off at the 
command of fate, even in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such things 
happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! 
'Tis here that 1 ewvy your people of fortune. — A fatiier on his death-bed, 
taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but 
the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency 
and friends ; while i — but i shall run distracted it' 1 think any longer on 
the subject." 

To the same lady, on the 29th of the month, he, after mentioning his 
supervisorship. and saying that at last his political sins seemed to be for- 
given him — goes on in this ominous tone — •' \V hat a transient business is 
life ! Very lately I was a boy , but t'other day a young man ; and i already 
begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over 
my frame." We may trace the melancholy sequel in the itw following 
extracts. 

" S\st January 11 9(). — I have lately drunk deep of the cup of afflic- 
tion, i he autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and 
ihat at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of -ny power to pay 
the last duties to her. 1 had scarcely begun to recover from that shock 
when 1 became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and 
long the die spun doubtful ; until, after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems 
to have turned up life, and I am beginnmg to crawl across my room, aw^ 
once indeed have been before my own d : >r in the street. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxix 

*' When pleasure fascinates the mental signt. 
Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
Roiigion hails the drear, the untried night, 

That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day.** 

But a few da} ^ after this, Burns was so exceedingly impmdent as to join 
i festive circle at a tavern dinner, where he remained till about three in the 
morning. The weather was se%ere, and he, being much intoxicated, took 
no precaution in thus exposing his debiHtated frame to its influeiiCe. It 
has been said, that he fell asleep upon the snow on his way home. It 
is certain, that next morning he was sensible of an icy numbness through 
all his joints — that his rheumatism returned with tenfold force upon him — 
and that from that unhappy hour, his mind brooded ominously on the fatal 
issue. The course of medicine to which he submitted was violent ; con- 
finement, accustomed as he had been to much bodily exercise, preyed 
miserably on all his powers ; he drooped visibly, and all the hopes of his 
friends, that health would return with summer, were destined to disap- 
pointment. 

" Ath June 179(>.* — I am in such miserable health as to be utterly inca- 
pable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheuma- 
tisms, I meet ever}- %ce with a greeting like that of Balak and Balaam, — 
Come curse me Jacob ; and come defy me Israel' " 

" 1th July. — I fear the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among you 
no more. — For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes 
bed-fast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor- 
tured with an excruciating rheumatism which has reduced me to nearly the 
last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me — pale, emaci- 
ated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair. — My spirits 
fled ! fled ! But I can no more on the subject." 

This last letter was addressed to Mr. Cunningham of Edinburgh, from 
the small village of Brow on the Solway Frith, about ten miles from Dum- 
fries, to which the poet removed about the end of June ; " the medical 
folks," as he says, " having told him that his last and only chance was 
bathing, country quarters, and riding." In separating himself by their ad- 
vice from his family for these purposes, he carried with him a heavy bur- 
den of care. " The duce of the matter," he writes, " is this ; when an ex- 
ciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced. What way, in the name of thrift, 
shall I maintain myself and keep a horse in country quarters on iSS?' 
He implored his friends in Edinburgh, to make interest with the Board to 
grant him his full salary ; if they do not, I must lay my account with an 
exit truly en ])oefe — if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." 

Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddel, a beautiful and very accomplished woman, 
to whom many of Burns's most interesting letters, in the latter years of his 
life, were addressed, happened to be in the neighbourhood of Brow when 
Burns reached his bathing quarters, and exerted herself to make him as 
comfortable as circumstances perm.itted. Having sent her carriage for his 
.•onveyance, the poet visited her on the 5th July; and she has, in a letter 
published by Dr. Currie, thus described his appearance and conversation 
on that occasion : — 

*' 1 was struck with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp 
of death was impressed on liis features. He seemed already touching the 
brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, Madam, have you any 

* The birth-dav of George III. 



CAX LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

commands for the other world ?' I replied that it seemed a doubtful case 
which of us should be there soonest, and that I hoped he would yet li\e tc 
write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) He looked in my 
face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me 
look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or no- 
thing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. 
We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and 
the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He spoke of hia 
ieath without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but with firmness as 
well as feeling — as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave 
him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotect- 
ed, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in the hourly expectation of 
lying-in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, 
the promising genius of his eldest son, and the flattering marks of appro- 
bation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on hi? 
hopes of that boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family 
seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection 
that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do. 
Passing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his lite- 
rary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He 
said he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that 
every scrap of his writings would be revived against him to the injury of his 
future reputation : that letters and verses written with unguarded and im- 
proper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, 
would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his 
resentment would restrain them, or prevent the censures of shrill-tongued 
malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their ve- 
nom to blast his fame. Me lamented that he had written many epigrams 
on persons against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters 
he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifferent poetical pieces, which 
he feared would now, with all their imperfections on their head, be thrust 
upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to 
put his papers into a state of arrangement, as he was now quite incapable of 
the exertion — The conversation was kept up with great evenness and ani- 
mation on his side. I have seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. 
There was frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and 
they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and 
dejection I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed 
not unwilling to indulge. — We parted about sun-set on the evening of that 
day (the 5th of July 1796) ; the next day 1 saw him again, and we parted 
to meet no more !" 

I do not know the exact date of the following letter to Mrs Burns : — 
'' Brow, Thursday. — My dearest Love, I delayed writing until I could 
tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injus- 
tice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me 
out my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow . 
pon'idge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy tc 
hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kind* 
est compliments to her and to all the children. I will see you on Sundai 
Your affectionate husband, ii. B." 

There is a very affecting letter to Gilbert, dated the 7 th, in which the 
ooe? sajis, " I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. — God keejr 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxi 

my wife and children.'' On the r2th, he wrote the letter to Mr. George 
Thomson, above quoted, requesting £5 ; and, on the same day, he penned 
also the following — the last letter that ae ever wrote— to his friend Mrs 
Dunlop. 

" Madam, I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, 
that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which ^ 
am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speed- 
ily send me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friend- 
ship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship 
dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, 
were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did 
1 use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to 
my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! !" 

I give the following anecdote in the words of Mr. M'Diarmid :* — 
" Rousseau, we all know, when dying, wished to be carried into the open 
ftir, that he might obtain a parting look of the glorious orb of day. A night 
or two before Burns left Brow, he drank tea with Mrs. Craig, widow of the 
minister of Ruthwell. His altered appearance excited much silent sympa- 
thy ; and the evening being beautiful, and the sun shining brightly through 
the casement. Miss Craig (now Mrs. Henry Duncan) was afraid the light 
miglU be too much for him, and rose with the view of letting down the win- 
dow blinds Burns immediately guessed what she meant ; and, regarding 
the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, ^ 'Ihank you, my dear, 
for your kind attention : but, oh, let him shine ; he will not shine long for 
me. 

On the ' 8th, despairing of any benefit from the sea, our poet came bacK 
to Dumfries. Mr. Allan Cunningham, who saw him arrive " visibly chang- 
ed in his looks, being with difficulty able to stand upright, and reach his 
own door," has given a striking picture, in one of his essays, of the state of 
popular feeling in the town during the short space which intervened between 
his return and his death. — " Dumfries was like a besieged place. It was 
known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned only, but 
of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or 
three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. 
They spoke of his history — of his person — of his works — of his family — of 
his fame — and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an 
enthusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that 
he said or was saying — the opinions of the physicians, (and Maxwell was a 
kind and a skilful one), were eagerly caught up and reported from street to 
street, and from house to house." 

" His good humour," Cunningham adds, " was unruffled, and his wit ne- 
ver forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow volunteers with a smile, 
as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, « John, don't let 
the awkward squad fire over me.' He repressed with a smile the hopes of 
his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near 
a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen increased. 
It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets 
during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means I had an 
opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages. 
His differences with them on some important points were forgotten and for- 

• I take the opportunity of once more acknowledginfi: my great obligations ro this ^ntle- 
aaan. who is I understand, comiected by his marriage with tiie fauiily oi' the 'jc**^ 

G 



cxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

given ; they thought only of his genius — of the delight his compositions 
had diffused — and they talked of him with the same awe as of some depart* 
ing spirit, whose voice was to gladden them no more." * 

•' A tremour now pervaded his frame," says Dr. Currie, on the authority 
of the physician who attended him ; " his tongue was parched-, and his mind 
sunk into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second and 
third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished." On the fourth, 
July 21st 1796, Robert Burns died. 

" I went to see him laid out for the grave," says Mr. Allan Cunning' 
ham ; *' several elder people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned 
coffin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around 
the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage oJ 
the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness ; but death had not 
increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and 
deeply marked — his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around 
it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey. The room 
where he lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble 
dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely en the heart than if 
his bier had been embellished by vanity, and covered with the blazonry of 
high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the 
space of several minutes- — we went, and others succeeded us — not a whis- 
per was heard. This was several days after his death." 

On the 2oth of July, the remains of the poet were removed to the Trades 
Hall, where they lay in state until the next morning. The volunteers of 
Dumfries were determined to inter their illustrious comrade (as indeed he 
had anticipated) with military honours. The chief persons of the town and 
neighbourhood resolved to make part of the procession ; and not a few tra- 
velled from great distances to witness the solemnity. The streets were 
lined by the Fennble Infantry of Angusshire, and the Cavalry of the Cinque 
Ports, then quartedat Dumfries, whose commander, Lord Hawksbury, (af- 
terwards Earl of Liverpool), although he had always declined a personal 
introduction to the poet, f officiated as one of the chief mourners. ' The 
multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave, went step by step," says 
Cunningham, " wi[}\ the chief mourners They might amount to ten or 
twelve thousand. Not a word was heard .... It was an impressive and 
mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions ming- 
ling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, 
with the remains of him who had sung of their loves and joys and domes- 
tic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have 
since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the pro- 
cession away. Ihe scarlet and gold — the banners displayed — the mea- 
sured step, and the military array — with the sounds of martial instruments 
of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene ; and 
had no connexion with the poet. 1 looked on it then, and I consider it 
now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of superfluous state which might have 
been spared, more especially as his neglected, and traduced, and insulted 
spirit had experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who 

are now proud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen 

I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he was about to 
descend for ever. There w^as a pause among the mourners, as if loath tc 

• In the London Magarine, 1824. Article, " Kobe Burns af^ Lord Byron." 
"f So J\lr. Syme has informed Mr, M'Dia.nud 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxiii 

^art witli his remains ; and when he was at last lowered, and the first sho 
velful of earth sounded on his coffin lid, 1 looked up and saw tears on many 
cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears oi 
their comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was 
heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gaz- 
ing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. 
The day was a fine one. the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a 
drop of rain fell from dawn to twilight. I notice this, not from any con- 
currence in the common superstition, that ' happy is the corpse which the 
rain rains on,' but to confute the pious fraud of a religious Magazine, 
which made Heaven express its wrath, at the interment of a profane poet 
in thunder, in lightning, and in rain." 

During the funeral solemnity, Mrs. Burns was seized with the pains ol 
labour, and gave birth to a posthumous son, who quickly followed his fa- 
ther to the grave. Mr. Cunningham describes the appearance of the fa- 
mily, when they at last emerged from their home of sorrow : — " A weep- 
ing widow and four helpless sons ; they came into the streets in their mourn- 
ings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh. I shall never forget the 
looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. The poet's life 
had nst been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in for- 
giving ; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unaliena- 
ble affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love 
by its regard and esteem." 

Immediately after the poet's death, a subscription was opened for the 
benefit of his family ; Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, 
Mr. Cuaningham, and Mr. M'Murdo, becoming trustees for the application 
of the money. Many names from other parts of Scotland appeared in the 
lists, and not a few from England, especially London and Liverpool. Seven 
hundred pounds were in this way collected ; an additional sum was for- 
warded from India ; and the profits of Dr. Currie's Life and Edition of 
Burns were also considerable. The result has been, that the sons of the 
poet received an excellent education, and that Mrs. Burns has continued 
to reside, enjoying a decent independence, in the house where the poet 
died, situated in what is now, by the authority of the Magistrates of Dum- 
fries, called Burns' Street. 

" Of the (four surviving) sons of the poet," says their uncle Gilbert in 
1S2(), " Robert, the eldest, is placed as a clerk in the Stamp Office, Lon- 
don, (Mr. Burns still remains in that establishment), Francis Wallace, the 
second, died in KsU.S ; William Nicoll, the third, went to Madras in 181 ! ; 
and James Glencairn, the youngest, to Bengal in 18! "i, both as cadets in 
the Honourable Company's service." These young gentlemen have all, it 
IS believed, conducted themselves through life in a manner highly honour- 
able to themselves, and to the name which they bear. One of them, 
(James), as soon as his circumstances permitted, settled a liberal annuity 
on Aiis estimable mother, which she still survives to enjoy. 

The great poet himself, whose name is enough to ennoble his children's 
children, was, to the eternal disgrace of his country, suffered to live and 
die in penury, and, as far as such a creature could be degraded by any ex- 
ternal circumstances, in degradation. Who can open the page of Burns, 
and remember without a blush, that tiie author of such verses, the human 
being whose breasl glowed with such feelings, was doomed to earn mere 
bread for his child: en by casting up the stock of publicans' cellars, and rid 



cxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

ing over moors and mosses in quest of smuggling stills "^ The subscription 
for his poems was, for the time, large and liberal, and perhaps absolves the 
gentry of Scotland as individuals ; but that some strong m ement of in^ 
dignation iid not spread over the whole kingdom, when it was known that 
Robert Barns, after being caressed and flattered by the noblest and most 
learned of his countrymen, was about to be established as a common gauger 
among the wilds of Nithsiale — and that, after he was so established, no 
interference from a highei quarter arrested that unworthy career : — these 
are circumstances which must continue to bear heavily on the memory ot 
that generation of Scotsmen, and especially of those who then adminis- 
tered the public patronage of Scotland. 

In defence, or at least in palliation, of this national crime, two false ar 
guments, the one resting on facts grossly exaggerated, the other having no 
foundation whatever either on knowledge or on wisdom, have been rashly 
set up, and arrogantly as well as ignorantly maintained. To the one, 
namely, that public patronage would have been wrongfully bestowed on the 
Poet, because tlie Exciseman was a political partizan, it is hoped the de- 
tails embodied in this narrative have supplied a sufficient answer : had the 
matter been as bad as the boldest critics have ever ventured to insinuate, 
Sir Walter Scott's answer would still have remained — " this partizan was 
Burns." The other argument is a still more heartless, as well as absurd 
one ; to wit, that from the moral character and habits of the man, no pa- 
tronage, however liberal, could have influenced and controlled his conduct, 
so as to work lasting and effective improvement, and lengthen his life by 
raising it more nearly to the elevation of his genius This is hideed a can- 
did and a generous method of judging ! Are imprudence and intemperance, 
then, found to increase usually in proportion as the worldly circumstances 
of men are easy } Is not the very opposite of this doctrine acknowledged 
by almost all that have ever tried the reverses of Fortune's wheel them- 
selves^ — by all that have contemplated, from an elevation not too high for 
sympathy, the usual course of manners, when their fellow creatures either 
encounter or live in constant apprehension of 

" The thousand ills that rise where money fails, 
Debts, threats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, and jails ?*' 

To such mean miseries the latter years of Burns's life were exposed, no 
less than his early youth, and after what natural buoyancy of animal spirits 
he ever possessed, had sunk under the influence of time, which, surely 
bringing experience, fails seldom to bring care also and sorrow, to spirits 
more mercurial than his ; and in what bitterness of heart he submitter" to 
his fate, l^t his own burning words once more tell us. " Take," says ne, 
writing to one who never ceased to be his friend — " take these two guineas, 
and place them over against that ****** account of yours, which has gag- 
ged my mouth these five or six months ! i can as little write good things 
as apologies to the man I owe money to. O, the supreme curse of mak- 
ing three guineas do the business of five ! Poverty ! thou half sister of 
death, thou cousin-german of hell ! Oppressed by thee, the man of senti- 
ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts v/ith sensibility 
inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the 
contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of 
genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashion- 
able and polite, must see, in suffering silence, his remark neglected, ans* 



IJFE OF r.OEERT BURNS cxxv 

nis person despised, uliile shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit^ 
shall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of 
worth that have reason to con^lain of thee ; the children of folly and vice, 
though, in common with thee, the ofl spring of evil, smart equally under 
thy rod. The man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education, is 
condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want ; and when his neces- 
sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and 
perishes by the justice of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the 
man of family and fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit 
and fire ; his consequent wants, are the embarrassments of an honest 
fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commis- 
sion to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, 
perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and 
respected, and dies a ******* and a lord ! — Nay, worst of all, alas for 
helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner oi 
the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglect- 
ed and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted rip, 
hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she, who, without the same neces- 
sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. — Well : divines may 
say of it what they please, but execretion is to the mind, what phlebotomy 
is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their 
respective evacuations." * 

In such evacuations of indignant spleen the proud heart of many an un- 
fortunate genius, besides this, has found or sought relief: and to other 
more dangerous indulgences, the affliction of such sensitive spirits had of- 
ten, ere his time, condescended. The list is a long and a painful one ; and 
it includes some names that can claim but a scanty share in the apology oJ 
Burns. Addison himself, the elegant, the philosophical, the religious Aa- 
dison, must be numbered with these offenders : — Jonson, Cotton, Prior, 
Parnell, Otway, Savage, all sinned in the same sort, and the transgressions 
of them all have been leniently dealt with, in comparison with those of one 
whose genius was probably greater than any of theirs ; his appetites more 
fervid, his temptations more abundant, his repentance more severe. T\ie 
beautiful genius of Collins sunk under similar contaminations ; and those 
who have from dullness of head, or sourness of heart, joined in the too ge- 
neral clamour against Burns, may learn a lesson of candour, of mercy, and 
of justice, from the language in which one of the best of men, and loftiest 
of moralists, has commented on frailties that hurried a kindred spirit to a 
Ike untimely grave. 

" In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits ©f dissipation," savs 
Johnson, " it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uni- 
form. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed always unen- 
tangled through the snares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity to 
affirm : but it may be said that he at least preserved the source of action 
unpolluted, that his principles were never shaken, that his distinctions of 
right and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing of 
malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected pressure or ca- 
sual temptation. Such was the fate of Collins, with whom 1 once de 
lighted to converse, and whom I yet remember with tenderness." 

• Letter to Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh. General Correspondence, p. 328. 



cxxvr LIFE OP nOBERT BURNS. 

Burns was an honest man : after all his struggles, he owed no man a 
shilling when he died. His heart was always warm and his hand open, 
" His charities," says Mr. Gray, " were ^eat beyond his means ;" and I 
have to thank Mr. Allan Cunningham for the following anecdote, for which 
I am sure every reader will thank him too. Mr. Maxwell of Teraughty, 
an old, austere, sarcastic gentleman, who cared nothing about poetry, used 
to say when the Excise-books of the district were produced at the meet- 
mgs ot the Justices, — " Bring me Burns's journal : it always does me good 
to see it, for it shows that an honest officer may carry a kind heart about 
with him." 

Of his religious principles, we are bound to judge by what he has told 
himself in his more serious moments. He sometimes doubted with the 
sorrow, what in the main, and above all, in the end, he believed with the 
lervour of a poet. «• It occasionally haunts me," says he in one of his let- 
ters, — " the dark suspicion, that immortality may be only too good news to 
be true :" and here, as on many points besides, how much did his method ot 
thinking, (I fear I must add of acting), resemble that of a noble poet more 
recently lost to us. " I am no bigot to infidelity," said Lord B}Ton, " and 
did not expect that because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be 
charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative in- 
significance of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with 
the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that 
our pretensions to immortality might be overrated." I dare not pretend 
to quote the sequel from memory, but the effect was, that Byron, like 
Burns, complained of " the early discipline of Scotch Calvinism," and 
the natural gloom of a melancholy heart, as having between them engen- 
dered " a hypochondriacal disease" which occasionally visited and depres- 
sed him through life. In the opposite scale, we are, in justice to Burns, 
to place many pages which breathe the ardour, nay the exultation of faith, 
and the humble sincerity of Christian hope ; and, as the poet himself has 
warned us, it well befits us 

"At the balance to be mute." 

Let us avoid, in the name of Religion herself, the fatal error of those who 
would rashly swell the catalogue of the enemies of religion. " A saUy ot 
levity," says once more Dr. Johnson, " an indecent jest, an unreasonable 
objection, are sufficient, in the opinion of some men, to efface a name 
from the lists of Christianity, to exclude a soul from everlasting life. 8uch 
men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look 
for favourable interpretations of ambiguities, or to know how soon any 
step of inadvertency has been expiated by sorrow and retractation, biU let 
fly their fulminations without mercy or prudence against slight offences or 
casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repent- 
ed. The zealot should recollect, that he is labouring, by this frequency 
of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength 
to the enemies of trutli. It must always be the condition of a great part 
of mankind, to reject and embrace tenets upon the authority of those whom 
they think wiser than themselves, and therefore the addition of every name 
to infidelity, in some degree invalidates that argument upon which the re- 
ligion of multitudes is necessarily founded." ♦ In conclusion, let me ado(^< 

• Life of Sh Thomas Browne. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxvii 

tlie beautiful sentiment of that illustrious morai poet of our own time 
whose generous defence of Burns will be remembered while the Ian 
guage lasts ; — 

*' liCt no mean hope your souls enslave — 
Be independent, generous, brave ; 
Your" Poet " such exam pie gave, 

And such revere. 
But be admonished by his grave, 

And think and fear." * 

It is possible, perhaps for some it may be easy, to imagine a character 
of a much higher cast than that of Burns, developed, too, under circum- 
stances in many respects not unlike those of his history — the character of a 
man of lowly birth, and powerful genius, elevated by that philosophy which 
is alone pure and divine, far above all those annoyances of terrestrial spleen 
and passion, which mixed from the beginning with the workings of his in- 
spiration, and in the end were able to eat deep into the great heart which 
they had long tormented. Such a being would have received, no ques- 
tion, a species of devout reverence, 1 mean when the grave had closed on 
him, to which the warmest admirers of our poet can advance no preten- 
sions for their unfortunate favourite ; but could such a being have delight- 
ed his species — could he even have instructed them like Burns 'i Ought 
we not to be thankful for every new variety of form and circumstance, in 
and under which the ennobling energies of true and lofty genius are found 
addressing themseives to the common brethren of the race ? Would we 
have none but Miltons and Cowpers in poetry — but Brownes and South- 
eys in prose ? Alas ! if it were so, to how large a portion of the species 
would all the gifts of all the muses remain for ever a fountain shut up and 
a book sealed ! Were the doctrine of intellectual excommunication to be 
thus expounded and enforced, how small the library that would remain to 
kindle the fancy, to draw out and refine the feelings, to enlighten the head 
by expanding the heart of man ! From Aristophanes to Byron, how broad 
the sweep, how woeful the desolation ! 

In the absence of that vehement sympathy with humanity as it is, its 
sorrows and its joys as they are, we might have had a great man, perhaps 
a great poet, but we could have had no Burns. It is very noble to despise 
the accidents of fortune ; but what moral homily concerning these, could 
have equalled that which Burns's poetry, considered alongside of Burns's 
history, and the history of his fame, presents ! It is very noble to be above 
the allurements of pleasure ; but who preaches so effectually against them, 
as he who sets forth in immortal verse his own intense sympathy with those 
that yield, and in verse and in prose, in action and in passion, in life and 
in death, the dangers and the miseries of yielding? 

It requires a graver audacity of hypocrisy than falls to the share of most 
men, to declaim against Burns's sensibiHty to the tangible cares and toils 
of his earthly condition ; there are more who venture on broad denuncia- 
tions of his sympathy with the joys of sense and passion. To these, the 
great moral poet already quoted speaks in the following noble passage — 
and must he speak in vain ? " Permit me," says he, " to remind you, that it 
is the privilege of poetic genius to catch, under certain restrictions of which 
perhaps at the time of its being exerted it is but dimly conscious, a 

• Wordsworth's address to the sons of Burns, on visiting his grave iu \WA 



cxxviif 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



spirit of pleasure wherever it can be found, — in the walks )f nature, and 
in the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates 
among the felicities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes 
fl"»«^ fairer aspects of war ; nor does he shrink from the company of the pas 
^lOn of love though immoderate — from convivial pleasuie though intempe- 
rate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the 
hand-maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way 
to these impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself, and in describ- 
ing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narrow- 
minded puritant in works of art, ever read without delight the picture 
which he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer, 
Tam o' Shanter ? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset, that 
his hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, whose excesses were fre- 
quent as his opportunities. This reprobate sits down to his cups, while 
the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is 
driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laughter and jest thicken as the 
beverage iniproves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the 
service of general benevolence — selfishness is not absent, but wearing the 
mask of social cordiality — and, while these various elements of humanity 
are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the 
anger of the tempest without doors only heightens and sets off the enjoy 
ment within. — I pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though 
there was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect. 

" Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.'* 



" What a lesson do these words convey of charitable indulgence for the 
vicious habits of the principal actor in this scene, and of those who resem- 
ble him ! — Men who to the rigidly virtuous are objects almost of loath- 
ing, and whom therefore they cannot serve ! The poet, penetrating the 
unsightly and disgusting surfaces of things, has unveiled with exquisite 
skill the finer ties of imagination and* feeling, that often bind these beings 
to practices productive of much unhappiness to themselves, and to those 
whom it is their duty to cherish ; — and, as far as he puts the reader into 
possession of this intelligent sympathy, he qualifies him for exercisi? g a 
salutary influence over the minds of those who are thus deplorably de- 
ceived." * 

That some men in every age will comfort themselves in the practic e of 
certain vices, by reference to particular passages both in the history and 
in the poetry of Burns, there is all reason to fear ; but surely the general 
influence of both is calculated, and has been found, to produce far different 
effects. The universal popularity which his writings have all along t njoy- 
ed among one of the most virtuous of nations, is of itself, as it would seem, 
a decisive circumstance. Search Scotland over, from the Pentland to the 
Solway, and there is not a cottage hut so poo^- und wretched as to be with- 
out its Bible ; and hardly one that, on the same shelf, and next to it, does 
not possess a Burns. Have the people degenerated since their adoption 
of this new manual ? Has their attachment to the Book of Bocks declined? 
Are their hearts less firmly bound, than were their fathers', to the old faith 
and the old virtues ? I believe, he tliat knows the most of the country wi^ 

• Wordsworth's Letter to liray, p. 24. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS< cxxui 

be the readiest to answer all these questions, as every lover of genius ana 
vii ;ue would desire to hear them answered. 

On one point there can be no controversy ; the poetry of Burns has had 
most powerful influence in reviving and strengthening the national feelings 
of his countrymen. Amidst penury and labour, his youth fed on the ol<l 
minstrelsy and traditional glories of his nation, and his genius divined, 
that what he felt so deeply must belong to a spirit that might lie smothered 
around him, but could not be extinguished. The political circumstances 
of Scotland were, and had been, such as to starve the flame of patriotism ; 
the popular literature had striven, and not in vain, to make itself English ; 
and, above all, a new and a cold system of speculative philosophy had be 
gun to spread widely among us. A peasant appeared, and set himself to 
check the creeping pestilence of this indifference. Whatever genius has 
since then been devoted to the illustration of the national manners, and 
sustaining thereby of the national feelings of the people, there can be no 
doubt that Burns will ever be remembered as the founder, and, alas ! in 
his own person as the martyr, of this reformation. 

That what is now-a-days called, by solitary eminence, the wealth of the 
nation, had been on the increase ever since our incorporation with a greater 
and wealthier state — nay, that the laws had been improving, and, above all, 
the administration of the laws, it would be mere bigotry to dispute. It 
may also be conceded easily, that the national mind had been rapidly clear- 
mg itself of many injurious prejudices — that the people, as a people, had 
been gradually and surely advancing in knowledge and wisdom, as well as 
in wealth and security. But all this good had not been accomplished with- 
out rude work. If the improvement were valuable, it had been purchased 
dearly. " The spring fire,' Allan Cunningham says beautifully somewhere, 
" which destroys the furze, makes an end also of the nests of a thousand 
song-birds ; and he who goes a-trouting with lime leaves little of life in the 
stream." We were getting fast ashamed of many precious and beautiful 
things, only for that they were old and our own. 

It has already been remarked, how even Smollett, who began with a 
national tragedy, and one of the noblest of national lyrics, never dared to 
make use of the dialect of his own country; and how Moore, another most 
enthusiastic Scotsman, followed in this respect, as in others, the example 
of Smollett, and over and over again counselled Burns to do the like. But 
a still more striking sign of the times is to be found in the style adopted 
by both of these novelists, especially the great master of the art, in their 
representations of the manners and characters of their own countrymen 
In Humphry Clinker, the last and best of Smollett's tales, there are some 
traits of abetter kind — but, taking his works as a whole, the impression it 
conveys is certainly a painful, a disgusting one. The Scotsmen of these 
authors, are the Jockeys and Archies of farce — 

Time out of mind the Southrons' mirthmakers — 

vhe best of them grotesque combinations of simplicity and hypocrisy, pride 
and meanness. When such men, high-spirited Scottish gentlemen, posses- 
sed of learning and talents, and, one of them at least, of splendid genius, 
felt, or fancied, the necessity of making such submissions to the prejudices of 
the dominant nation, and did so without exciting a murmur among their own 
countrymen, we may form some notion of the boldness of Burns's experi- 
ment; and on contr-^sting the state of things then with what is before us 



cxxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

now, it will cost no effort to appreciate the nature and consequences of the 
victory in which our poet led the way, by achievements never in their kind 
to be surp assed. " Burns," says Mr. Campbell, " has given the elixir vitae 
to his dialect ;" — he gave it to more than his dialect. "He was," savs a 
writer, in whose language a brother poet will be recognised — " he was m 
many respects born at a happy time ; happy for a man of genius like him, 
but fatal and hopeless to the more common mind. A whole world of life 
lay before Burns, whose inmost recesses, and darkest nooks, and sunniest 
eminences, he had famil arly trodden from his childhood. All that world 
he feft could be made his own. No conqueror had overrun its fertile pro- 
vinces, and it was for him to be crowned supreme over all the 

' Lyric singers of that high-soul'd land.' 

The crown that he has won can never be removed from his head. Much 
is yet left for other poets, even among that life where his spirit delighted 
to work ; but he has built monuments on all the high places, and they who 
follow can only hope to leave behind them some far humbler memorials." * 

Dr. Currie says, that " \^ fiction be the soul of poetry, as some assert,' 
Burns can have small pretensions to the name of poet." The success of 
Burns, the influence of his verse, would alone be enough to overturn all 
the systems of a thousand definers ; but the Doctor has obviously taken 
fiction in far too limited a sense. There are indeed but few of Burns's 
pieces in which he is found creating beings and circumstances, both alike 
alien from his own person and experience, and then by the power of ima- 
gination, divining and expressing what forms life and passion would assume 
with, and under these. — But there are some ; there is quite enough to sa- 
tisfy every reader of HdUoween, the Jolly Beggars, and Tarn 6 Shanter, 
(to say nothing of various particular songs, such as Bruce s Address, Mac- 
pherson's Lament, S:c.), that Burns, if he pleased, might have been as large- 
ly and as successfully an inventor in this way, as he is in another walk, 
perhaps not so inferior to this as many people may have accustomed them- 
selves to believe ; in the art, namely, of recombining and new-combining, 
varying, embellishing, and fixing and transmitting the elements of a most 
picturesque experience, and most vivid feelings. 

Lord Byron, in his letter on Pope, treats with high and just contempt 
the laborious trifling which has been expended on distinguishing by air- 
drawn lines and technical slang -words, the elements and materials of poe- 
tical exertion ; and, among other things, expresses his scorn of the attempts 
that have been made to class Burns among minor poets, merely because he 
has put forth few large pieces, and still fewer of what is called the purely 
imaginative character. Fight who will about words and forms, " Burns's 
rank," says he, " is in the first class of his art ;" and, 1 believe, the world 
at large are now- a-days well prepared to prefer a line from such a pen as 
Byron's on any such subject as this, to the most luculent dissertation that 
ever perplexed the brains of writer and of reader. Sentio, ergo sum, says 
the metaphysician ; the critic may safely parody the saying, and assert 
that that is poetry of the highest order, which exer^ts influence of the most 
powerful order on the hearts and minds of mankind. 

Burns has been appreciated dul}^ and he has had the fortune to be prais- 
ed eloquently, by almost every poet who has come after hinr.. To accu* 

Blackwood's Magazine, February 1817- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



CXXX! 



mulate all that has been said of him, even by men like himself, of the first 
order, would fill a volume — and a noble monument, no question, that vo- 
lume would be — the noblest, except what he has left us in his own im- 
mortal verses, which — were some dross removed, and the rest arranged in 
a chronological order — would I believe form, to the intelligent, a more per- 
fect and vivid history of his life than will ever be composed out of all the 
materials in the world besides. 

" The impression of his genius," says Campbell, " is deep and univer- 
sal ; and viewing him merely as a poet, there is scarcely another regret 
connected with his name, than that his productions, with all their merit, 
fail short of the talents which he possessed. That he never attempted any 
great work of fiction, may be parti}' traced to the cast of his genius, and 
partly to his circumstances, and defective education. His poetical tempe- 
rament was that of fitful transports, rather than steady inspiration. What- 
ever he might have written, was likely to have been fraught with passion. 
There is always enough of interest in life to cherish the feelings of genius ; 
but it requires knowledge to enlarge and enrich the imagination. Of that 
knowledge which unrolls the diversities of human manners, adventures 
and characters, to a poet's study, he could have no great share ; although 
he stamped the little treasure which he possessed in the mintage of sove- 
reign genius." * 

" Notwithstanding," says Sir Walter Scott, " the spirit of many of his 
lyrics, and the exquisite sweetness and simplicity of others, we cannot but 
deeply regret that so much of his time and talents was frittered away in 
compiling and composing for musical collections. There is sifficient evi- 
dence, that even the genius of Burns could not support him in the monoton- 
ous task of writing love verses, on heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes, and 
twisting them mto such rhythmical forms as might suit the capricious evo- 
lutions of Scotch reels and strathspeys. Besides, this constant waste oi 
his power and fancy in small and insignificant compositions, must neces- 
sarily have had no little effect in deterring him from undertaking any grave 
or important task. Let no one suppose that we under\alue the songs of 
Burns. When his soul was intent on suiting a favourite air to words hu- 
morous or tender, as the subject demanded, no poet of our tongue ever 
displayed higher skill in marr3'ing melody to immortal verse. But the 
writing of a series of songs for large musical collections, degenerated into 
a slavish labour which no talents could support, led to negligence, and, 
above all, diverted the poet from his grand plan of dramatic composition. 
To produce a work of this kind, neither, perhaps, a regular tragedy nor 
comedy, but something partaking of the nature of both, seems to have been 
long the cherished wish of Burns. He had even fixed on the subject, 
which was an adventure in low life, said to have happened to Robert Bruce, 
while wandering in danger and disguise, after being defeated by the English. 
The Scottish dialect would have rendered sucJi a piece totally unfit for the 
stage ; but those who recollect the masculine and lofty tone of martial spirit 
which glows in the poem of Bannockburn, will sigh to think what the cha- 
racter of the gallant Bruce might have proved under the hand of Burns. It 
would undoubtedly have wanted that tinge of chivalrous feeling which the 
manners of the age, no less than the disposition of the monarch, demanded , 
but this deficiency would have been more than supplied by a bard who 
could have drawn from his own perceptions, the unbending energy of « 

• Soecimens. vol. vii. 241. 



cxxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

hero sustaining (he desertion of friends, the persecution of enemies, and 
the utmost malice of disastrous fortune. The scene, too, ])eing partly laid 
in humble life, admitted that display of broad humour and exquisite patiios^ 
with which he could, interchangeably and at pleasure, adorn his cottage 
views. Nor was the assemblage of familiar sentiments incompatible in 
Burns, with those of the most exalted dignity. In the inimitable tale oi 
Tarn o SJuDiter, he has left us sufficient evidence of his abilities to com- 
oine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with 
•■.he exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most 
varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions. His humour- 
ous description of death in the poem on Dr. Hornbook borders on the ter- 
rific, and the witches' dance in the kirk of Alloa is at once ludicrous and 
horrible. Deeply must we then regret those avocations which diverted a 
fancy so varied and so vigorous, joined w ith language and expression suited 
to all its changes, from leaving a more substantial monument to his own 
fame, and to the honour of his country." 

The cantata of the Jolly Beggars, which was not printed at all until some 
time after the poet's death, and has not been included in the editions of his 
works until within these ^ew years, cannot be con^^idered as it deserves, with- 
out strongly heightening our regret that Burns never lived to execute his 
meditated drama. That extraordinary sketch, coupled with his later ly- 
rics in a higher vein, is enough to show that in him we had a master capa- 
ble of placing the musical drama on a level with the loftiest of our classi- 
cal forms Beggars Bush, and Beggars Opera, sink into tameness in the 
comparison ; and indeed, without profanity to the name of vShakspeare, it 
may be said, that out of such materials, even his genius could hardly have 
constructed a piece in which imagination could have more splendidly pre- 
dominated over the outward shows of things— in which the sympathy- 
awakening power of poetry could have been displayed more triumphantly 
under circumstances of the greatest difficulty. — That remarkable perform- 
ance, by the way, was an early production of the Mauchline period. I 
know nothing but the Tam. o Shanter that is calculated to convey so high 
an impression of what Burns might have done. 

As to Burns's want of education and knowledge, Mr. Campbell may not 
have considered, but he must admit, that whatever Burns's opportunities 
had been at the time when he produced his first poems, such a man as he 
was not likely to be a hard reader, (which he certainly was), and a constant 
observer of men and manners, in a much wider circle of society than al- 
most any other great poet has ever moved in, from three and- twenty to 
eight-and-thirty, without having thoroughly removed any pretext for au- 
guring unfavourably on that score, of what he might have been expected 
to produce in the more elaborate departments of his art had his life been 
spared to the usual limits of humanity. In another way, however, I can- 
not help suspecting that Burns's enlarged knowledge, both of men and books, 
produced an unfavourable effect, rather than otherwise, on the exertions, 
such as they were, of his later years. His generous spirit was open to the 
impression of every kind of excellence ; his lively imagination, bending its 
own vigour to whatever it touched, made him admire even what other peo- 
pU try to read in vain ; and after travelling, as he did, over the general 
surface of our literature, he appears to have been somewhat startled at the 
consideration of what he himself had, in comparative ignorance, adventur- 
3d, and to have been more intimidated than encouraged by the retrospect 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



CXXXlli 



r» most of the new departments in which he made some trial of his strength^ 
(such, for example, as the moral epistle in Pope's vein, the heroic satire, 
&c.). he appears to have soon lost heart, and paused. There is indeed one 
magnificent exception in Tarn o Shnnfer — a piece which no one can under- 
stand without believing, that had Burns pursued that walk, and poured out 
his stores of traditionary lore, embellished with his extraordinary powers 
of description of all kinds, we might have had from his hand a series of na- 
tional tales, uniting the quaint simplicity, sly humour, and irresistible pathos 
of another Chaucer, with the strong and graceful versification, and mascu- 
line wit and sense of another Dryden. 

This was a sort of feeling that must have in time subsided. — But let us 

not waste words in regretting what might have been, where so much is 

Burns, short and painful as were his years, has left behind him a volume 
in which there is inspiration for every fancy, and music for every mood ; 
which lives, and will live in strength and vigour — " to soothe." as a gene- 
rous lover of genius has said — " the sorrows of how many a lover, to in- 
flame the patriotism of how many a soldier, to fan the fires of how many a 
genius, to disperse the gloom of solitude, appease the agonies of pain, en- 
courage virtue, and show vice its ugliness;" * — a volume, in which, centuries 
hence, as now, wherever a Scotsman may wander, he will find the dearest 
ccnsolation of his exile. — Already has 

'' Glory without end 



Scattered the clouds away ; and on that name attend 
The tears and praises of all time" -f- 



The mortal remains of the poet rest in Dumfries churchyard. For rifne- 
teen years they were covered by the plain and humble tombstone placed 
over them by his widow, bearing the inscription simply of his name. But 
a splendid mausoleum Laving been erected by public subscription on the 
most elevated site which the churchyard presented, the remains were so- 
lemnly transferred thilher on the 8th June ! 8 1 .) ; the original tombstone 
having been sunk under the bottom of the mausoleum. This shrine of the 
poet is annually visited by many pilgrims. The inscription it bears is given 
below. Another splendid monumental edifice has also been erected to 
his memory on a commanding situation at the foot of the Carrick hills ir. 
Ayrshire, in the in^mediate vicinity of the old cottage where the poet was 
born ; and such is the unceasing, nay daily increasing veneration of hib 
admiring countrymen, that a third one, of singular beauty of design, ih 
now in progress, upon a striking projection of that most picturesque emi- 
nence — the Calton Hill of Edinburgh — The cut annexed to p. cxxxvi 
exhibits a view, necessarily but an imperfect one, of the nionu nent la«» 
mentioned. 



See the Censura Literaria of Sir Egerton Brydges, vol. ii. p. 55 

l/ord Uvron's Child Harold, Canto iv. ?>(\ 



CMCJflv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



INSCRIPTION UPON THE POET'S MONUMENT IS) 
DUMFRIES CHURCHYARD. 



IN AETERNUM HONOREM 

ROBERTI BURNS 

fOETARUM CALEDONIAE SUI AEVI LONGE PRIKCIP» 

CUJUS CARMINA EXIMIA PaTRTO SERMONE SCRIPTA 

ANIMI MAGIS ARDENTIS VIQUe INGENII 

QUAM ARTE VEL CULTU CONSPICUA 

FACETIIS JUCUNDMATE LEPORE AFFLUENTIA 

OMNIBUS LITTERARUM CULTORIBUS SATIS NOTA 

GIVES SUI NECNON FIJIRIQUE OMNE8 

MUSARUM AMANTISSIMl MEMORIAMQUB VIM 

ARTE POeXICA TAM PRAECLARI FOVENTE* 

HOC MAUSOLEUM 

SUPER RELIQUIAS POKTAE MORTALE8 

EXTRUENDUM CUR A VERB 

PRIMUM HUJUS AEPIFICn LAPIDEM 

GULJELMUS MILLER ARMIGER 

BEIPUBLICAE ARCHITECTONICAE APUD SCOTOS 

lir REGIONE AUSTRALI CURIO MAXIMUS PROVINCIALiS 

GEORGIO TERTIO REGNANTE 

GEORGIO WALLIARUM PRINCIPE 

SUMMAM IMPERII PRO PATRE TENENTE 

JOSEPHO GASS ARMIGERO DUMFRISIAE PRAEFECT© 

THOMA F. HUNT LONDINENSI ARCHITECTO 

POSUIT 

yONIS JUNIIS ANNO LUCIS VMDCCCXV 

SAI.UTIS HUMANAE MiXiOCXV. 





ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. cxxxv 


The many poetical effusions the 


Peot's death gave rise to, presents a 


w^ide field for selection. — The elegiac verses by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool 


have been preferred, as the most fitting sequel to his eventful life 


THE DEATH OF BURNS. 


Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 


But ah ! no fond maternal smile 


Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 


His unprotected youth enjoy 'd, 


A.nd, Scotia, pour tbv thousand rills, 


His limbs inur'd to early toil. 


And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 


His days with early hardships tried | 


But, ah ! what poet now shall tread 


And more to mark the gloomy void. 


Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 


And bid him feel his misery. 


Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 


Before his infant eyes would glide 


That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! 


Day-dreams of immortalitv. 


As green thy towering pines may grow, 


" *t, not by cold neglect depress'd, 


As clear thy streams may speed along, 


With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 


As bright thy summer suns may glow. 


* Nnk with the evening sun to rest, 


As gaily charm thy feathery throng ; 


And met at morn his earliest smile. 


But now, unheeded is the song, 


^'aked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 


And dull and lifeless all around, 


The powers of fancy came along. 


For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 


And Footh'd his lengthenea hours of toil, 


And cold the hand that waked its sound. 


With native wit and sprightly song. 


What though thy vigorous offspring rise, 


— Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 


In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 


When vigorous health from labour springi 


Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 


And bland contentment smooths the bed, 


And health in every feature dwell ? 


And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 


Yet who shall now their praises tell, 


And hovering round on airy wings 


In strains impassion'd, fond, and free. 


Float the light forms of young desire, 


Since he no more the song shall swell 


That of unutterable things 


To love, and liberty, and thee ? 


The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 


With step-dame eye and frown severe 


Now spells of mightier power prepare. 


His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 


Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; 


For all thy joys to him were dear. 


Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. 


And all his vows to thee were due ; 


And Fame attract his vagrant glance ; 


Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 


Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, 
Unveil'd her eyes, anclasp'd her zone. 


In opening youth's delightful prime, 


Than when thy favouring ear he drew 


Till, lost in love's delirious trance. 


To listen to his chaunted rhyme. 


He scorns the joys his youth has known. 


Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 


Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul; 
And Mirth concentre all her rays. 


') him were all with rapture fraugtit ; 


He he-ird with joy the tempest rise 


That waked him to sublimer thought; 


And point them from the sparkling bowi 


And oft thy winding dells he sought, [fume. And let the careless moments roU 


Where wild-fl:iwers pour'd their rathe per- In social pleasure unconfined. 


And with sincere devotion brought 


And confidence that spurns control 


To tliee the summer's earliest bloom. 


Unlock the inmost springs of mind : 


. ■ 1 



cxxxvi 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



And lead his steps those bowers among, 

W^here elegance with splendour vies, 
Or Science bids her favour'd throng 

To more refined sensations rise : 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And freed from each laborious strife, 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy. 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let Despair, witn wizard light, 

Disclose the yawning gulf below. 
And pour incessant on his sight 

Her spectred ills and shapes of woe : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 

In silent grief where droops her head, 
The partner of his early joys ; 



And let his infants' tender cries 
His fond parental succour daim. 

And bid him hear in agonies 

A husband's and a father's name. 

*Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds , 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the i'oet's anient eyes. 

— Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys pr )udly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand riUs, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms re* , 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, tliy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 

That ever breat|jied the soothing straUk 




'J 



CHARACTER 

OF 

BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS^ 

BT 

MRS. RroDELL OF GLENRIDDELL.* 



The attention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with 
tfifi losfs it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Ro- 
bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary 
world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It 
was not therefore probable that such an event should be long unattended 
with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which 
are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and cele- 
brated personage : I had however conceived no intention of appropriating 
to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's writings and character, or ot 
anticipating on the province of a biographer. 

Conscious indeed of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I 
should have continued wholly silent, had misrepresentation and calumny 
been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than affection for the 
memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at 
least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and 
the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qua- 
lities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu- 
nicate. 

It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by 
future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotland, 
and perhaps a number of his contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, 
and considered, with reference to his poetical talents oitly : for the fact is, 
even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration, 
that poetry (1 appeal to all who have had the advantage of being person 
ally acquainted with him) was actually not \i\& forte. Many others, per- 
haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of ParnassuS; 
but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, 1 

•• Mrs. Riddell knew the poet well ; she had every opportunity for observation of what he said and dirf, » 
well as of what was said of nim and done towards him. Her beautifully written Eloge, — friendly yet candid, 
—was well received and generally circulated at the time. It has been inserted by Dr. Currie in his several 
editions, as interesting from its elegance, and authoritative from the writer's accurate information; we hav? 
tkcrefore mo«t readily given it a place here. 



v^xxxviii CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. 

would almost call it, of fascinating conversation, the spontaneous elo« 
quence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of bri.liant repar- 
tee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with a larger portion of the 
• vivida vis animi' His personal endowments were perfectly correspon- 
dent tc the qualifications of his mind : his form was manly ; his action, 
energy itself; devoid in great measure perhaps of those graces, of that 
polish, acquired only in the refinement of societies where in early life he 
could have no opportunities of mixing ; but where, such was the irresist- 
ible power of attraction that encircled hiui, though his appearance and 
manners were always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. 
His figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination and employ- 
ments. It seemed rather moulded by nature for the ro^gh exercises of 
Agriculture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Lettres. His fea- 
tures were stamped with the hardy character of independence, and the 
firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, pre-eminence ; the animated 
expressions of countenance were almost peculiar to himself; the rapid 
lightnings of his eye were always the harbingers of some flash of genius, 
whether they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant superiori- 
ty, or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous 
affections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic of his eye : so- 
norous, replete with the finest modulations, it alternately captivated the 
ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous reason- 
ing, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism, The keenness of sa- 
tire was, 1 am almost at a loss whether to say, his forte or his foible ; for 
though nature had endowed him with a portion of the most pointed excellence 
in that dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, 
and sometimes unfounded, animosities. It was not always that sportiveness 
of humour, that «' unwary pleasantry," which Sterne has depicted with touches 
so conciliatory ; but the darts of ridicule were frequently dirq5:ted as the ca- 
price of the instant suggested, or as the altercations of parties and of persons 
happened to kindle the restlessness of his spirit into interest or aversion. 
This, however, was not invariably the case; his wit, (which is no unusual mat- 
ter indeed), had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him into 
the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied with 
the least desire to wound. The suppression of an arch and full-pointed bon 
mot, from a dread of offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly 
classes as a virtue only to be sought for in the Calendar- of Saints ; if so, 
Burns must not be too severely dealt with for being rather deficient in it. 
He paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. *' 'Twas no 
extravagant arithmetic," to say of him, as was said of Yorick, that " for 
every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies ;" but much allowance will be 
made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit whom " dis- 
tress had spited with the world," and which, unbounded in its intellectual 
sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by the way- 
wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes and temper wa* indeed 
checked by almost habitual disappointments, which sat heavy on a heart 
that acknowledged the ruling passion of independence, without having ever 
been placed beyond the grasp of penury. His soul was never languid or 
inactive, and his genius was extinguished only with the last spark of re- 
treating life. His passions rendered him, according as they disclosed them 
selves in affection or antipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, or of 
decided enmity : for he possessed none of that negative insipidity oi f fia 



CHARACTER OF BUR NTS AND HTS WRITINGS. cxxxm 

racter, whose love might be regarded with indifference, or whose resent- 
ment could be considered with contempt. In this, it should seem, the 
temper of his associates took the tincture from his own ; for he acknowledg- 
ed in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration the most 
fervent, or of aversion the most uncontrolable ; and it has been frequently 
a reproach to him, that, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating, where 
he ought only to have despised, he alternately opened his heart and poured 
forth the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of ap- 
preciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges of an adversary, some 
who were unqualified in all respects for the honour of a contest so distin- 
guished. 

It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to " love a good 
nater" — a temperament that would have singularly adapted him to cherish 
a prepossession in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell but little short even 
of the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long as the disposition to ill-will 
continued ; but the warmth of his passions was fortunately corrected by 
their versatility. He was seldom, indeed never, implacable in his resent- 
ments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, not inviolably faithful in his 
engagements of friendship. Much indeed has been said about his incon- 
stancy and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe, that they originated less 
in a levity of sentiment, than from an extreme impetuosity of feeling, 
which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, 
where he fancied he had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind- 
ness, took their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite 
sentiment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its as- 
cendancy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflection. He was candid 
and manly in the avowal of his errors, and his avowal was a reparation. 
His native yzer^e never forsaking him for a moment, the value of a frank 
acknowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, from its 
never being attended with servility. His mind, organized only for the 
stronger and more acute operations of the passions, was impracticable to 
the efforts of superciliousness that would have depressed it into humility, 
and equally superior to the encroachments of venal suggestions that might 
have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. 

It has been observed, that he was far from averse to the incense ot 
flattery, and could receive it tempered with less delicacy than might 
have been expected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in that 
way himself; where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the 
power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an honest' tri- 
bute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been sometimes 
represented, by those who it should seem had a view to depreciate, though 
they could not hope wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which the 
powers of this extraordinary man had invariably bestowed on every thing 
that came from his lips or pen, that the history of the Ayrshire ploughboy 
was an ingenious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtaining the inte- 
rests of the great, and enhancing the merits of what in reality required no 
foil. The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tam o' Shanter, and the Mountain 
Daisy, besides a number of later productions, where the maturity of his 
genius will be readily traced, and which will be given to the public as 
soon as his friends have collected and arranged them, speak sufficiently foi 
themselves ; and had they fallen from a hand more dignified in the rank 
Df society than that of a peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual fa 



cxl CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRlllNGS. 

grace tnere, as even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from whence 
they really sprung. 

To the obscure scene of Burns's education, and to the laborious, though 
honourable station of rural industry, in which his parentage enrolled him, 
almost every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give testimony. Hia 
only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his 
forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; * and our poet's eldest 
son (a lad of nine years of age, whose early dispositions already prove him 
to be in some measure the inheritor of his father's talents as well as indi- 
gence) has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the 
loom, f 

That Burns had received no classical education, and was acquainted 
with the Greek and Roman authors only through the medium of transla- 
tions, is a fact of which all who were in the habits of conversing with him, 
might readily be convinced. I have indeed re.dom observed him to be at 
a loss in conversation, unless where the dead languages and their writers 
have been the subjects of discussion. When I have pressed him to tell me 
why he never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a lan- 
guage which his happy memory would have so soon enabled him to be mas- 
*er of, he used only to reply with a smile, that he had already learnt all the 
Latin he desired to know, and that was Omnia vindt amor ; a sentence 
that, from his writings and most favourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly 
seem that he was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really believe his clas- 
sic erudition extended little, if any, farther. 

The penchant Burns had uniformly acknowledged for the festive plea- 
sures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer objects of natures 
creation, has been the rallying point from whence the attacks of his cen- 
sors have been uniformly directed ; and to these, it must be confessed, he 
shewed himself no stoic His poetical pieces blend with alternate happi- 
ness of description, the frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart 
to the tender and impassioned sentiments in which beauty always taught 
him to pour forth his own. But who would wish to reprove the feelings he 
has consecrated with such lively touches of nature ? And where is the 
rugged moralist who will persuade us so far to " chill the genial current 
of the soul," as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that 
Anacreon sung beneath his vine ? 

I will not however undertake to be the apologist of the irregularities 
even of a man of genius, though I believe it is as certain that genius never 
was. free from irregularities, as that their absolution may in a great mea- 
sure be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evident that the world had con- 
tinued very stationary in its intellectual acquirements, had it never given 
birth to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due re- 
gard to the decorums of the world, have been so rarely seen to move hand 
in hand with genius, that some have gone as far as to say, though there i 
cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompatible ; besides, the 
frailties that cast their shade over the splendour of superior merit, are 
more consnicuously glaring than where they are the attendants of mere medi- 

• The fate of this worthy man is noticed at p. 302, where will be found a deserved tribute 
to his memory, (for he, too, alas I is gone), from the pen of a friend. 

-f- The plan of breeding the poet's eldest son a manufacturer was given up. He has been 
placed in one of the public offices (the Stamp-Office) in London, where he continues to fill 
respectably a respectable situation. His striking likeness to the poet has be*'n often le. 
caarked 



CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxl 

ocrity. It Is only on the gem we are disturbed to see the dust ; the pebble 
may be soiled, and we never regard it. The eccentric intuitions of genius 
too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always un 
bounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the repose of others as fata 
to its own. No wonder then if virtue herself be sometimes lost in the blaze 
of kindling animation, or that the calm monitions of reason are not inva- 
riably found sufficient to fetter an imaginaiioj which scorns the narrow 
limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. 
The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre- 
cepts of philosophy, too often unable to control the passions which proved 
a source of frequent errors and misfortunes to him, Bur"" made his own 
artless apology in language more impressive than all the argumentatory 
vindications in the world could do, in one of his own poems, where he de- 
lineates the gradual expansion of his mind to the lessons of the ** tutelary 
muse," who concludes an address to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity 
and beautiful poetry, with these lines ; 

" I saw thy pulse's niadd'ning play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way ; 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray. 

Was light from heaven /"* 

I have already transgressed beyond the bounds I haa proposed to my- 
self, on first committing this sketch to paper, which comprehends what at 
least I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns's mind and cha- 
racter : a literary critique I do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in 
these pages I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits that 
distinguished him, — of those talents which raised him from the plough, 
where he passed the bleak morning of his life, weaving his rude wreaths 
of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang around his cottage, to that 
enviable eminence of literary tame, where Scotland will long cherish his 
memory with delight and gratitude ; and proudly remember, that beneath 
her cold sky a genius was ripened, without care or culture, that would have 
done honour to climes more favourable to those luxuriances — that warmth 
of colouring and fancy in which he se eminently excelled. 

From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public.prlnts, ever since 
the idea of sending this sketch to some one of them was formed, I find pri- 
vate animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet exhaust- 
ed all her shafts. I still trust, however, that honest fame will be perma- 
nently affixed to Burns's character, which I think it wil' oe found he has 
merited by the candid and impartial among his countrymen. And where 
a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifications in- 
terpose, let the imperfection of all human excellence be remembered at 
the same time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately exalted his 
nature into the seraph, and sunk it again into the man, to the tribuna.' 
which alone can investigate the labyrinths of the human heart — 

" Where they alike in trembling hope repose^ 
— The bosom of his father and his God'" 

Gray's Elcot. 
Annandaley August 7, 1796, 

• Vide the Vision— Duan 2(L 



TO. THE 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEME.* 



OF THE 



CALEDONIAN HUNT- 



My Lords and Gentlemen, 

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition Is tc 
ling in his Country's service — where shall he so properly look for patron- 
age as to the illustrious names of his Native Land; those who bear the ho- 
nours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? The Poetic Genius of 
my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the 
plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the 
loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my 
native tongue ; I turned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired. — She whis- 
pered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and ay my 
Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my 
Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for 
past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that ho- 
nest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the 
venal soul of a servile Author, looking for a continuation of those favours: 
1 was bred to the Plough, and am independent. 1 come to claim the coo* 
mon Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell .»«d 
world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my Country, that 
the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminuted ; and that from 
your courage, knowledge, and public-spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to profer my warmest wishes 
to the Great F'ountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your 
welfare and happiness. 

Wlien you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite 
amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; and 
may Social Joy await yooir return : When harassed in courts or campi 



clx DEDICATION TO THE UALEDONIAxS HUNT 

with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest conscv 
ousness of injured worth attend your return to your Native Seats ; and 
may Domestic Happiness, with a smihng welcome, meet you at your gates ! 
May corruption shrink at your kindUng indignant glance ; and may tyranny 
in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find an inexorable 
foe! 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude, 
and highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 

EGBERT BURNa 

Edinburgh, ( 
apiii 4, 1787. I 



POEMS, 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH, 



CHE TWA DOGS: 

A TALE. 

TwAs tj that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That Dears the name o* Avid King Coil, 
Upon a bofinie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name they ca'd him CcBsar^ 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him th« gentleman and scholar : 
But tho' he was o' high degree. 
The fient a pride na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent .in hour caressin', 
Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his frieud an comrade had him. 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He wa« a gsah an' faith fu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, aonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
We« 1 clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
Hia gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hurg o'er his hurdies wi' a JwurL 



• CuchulUD't dog in OMian'i FingaL 



Nae doubt but they were fain o' ithov 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
W i' social noise whyles snuiTd and snewkit { 
Whyles mice and mowdieworts they howkit} 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion» 
An' worry'd ither in diversion j 
Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression, 
About the lords o' the creation 



I've often wonder'd honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you aare* 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse. 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks. 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling^ 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry fast are stechin', 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian* : 
An' what poor cot- folk pit their painch in, 
I own its past my comprehension. 



Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're &sh*t ene 
A cotter howkin in a Mheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like, 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A emytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
An' nought but his han' dargi to keep 
Them right^ :ind tight in tlack an' raps. 



2 



BURNS WORKS. 



An' when they meet wi sair disasters. 
Like loss o' health, or want of masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch ianger, 
An* they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; 
But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, 
riiey're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
\re bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then to see how yeVe negleckit. 
How hufF'd, and cufPd, and disrespeckit ! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court day 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse au' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a*, an' fear an' tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustomed wi' the sight. 
The view o't gi'es them little fright 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattlin things are just their pride 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy , 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts. 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, rantin' kirns, 
When rural life, o' every station, 
Unite in common recreation : 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's Car** upo' the earth. 

That merry 'f y the rear begins, 
They bar the ooor on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling re* x. 
An' aheds a heart-inspiring steair • 



The luntin' pipe, ar A sneeshin' mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house,- 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. 
Are riven out baith root and branch. 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himself the faster 
In favours wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin', 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'- 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it 
f'QT Britain's guid ! — guid faith, I doubt it 
Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' sayin' aye or no^s they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft. 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
To mak a tour, and tak a whirl, 
To learn hon ton and see the worl' 

There, at Vienna, or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ! 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh — re-hunting among groves o' myrtle* 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter. 
An' clear the consequential sorrows 
Love gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For Uritain's guid ! — for her destruction 
Wi' dissipation, fewl, an' faction. 



Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gats 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themselves wi' countra sport*, 
It wad for every ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter . 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill- hearted fellows; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye *ei! mt-.. Master CcBsnr, 
Sure gr«ja* folk'> ..Vs a ^"" o pl<-i«urt' 
M,- cauJd I. r nunger e'er cac sit. •.benot 
The "ery tnought o't need na fear 



POEMS. 



L— d, man, were ye but whyfes where I a 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'am. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
rhro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges an' schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them. 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them. 
In like proportion less will hurt them ; 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; 
But Gentlemen, an Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil hrtet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Tlieir days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 
An' ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races, 
Their gallopin' through public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art. 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches : 
Ae night tney're mad wi' drink an wh-ring, 
Neist day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
Ihey sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuka 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight : 
An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan : 
When up they gat an shook their lugs, 
Reioic'd they were na men but dogs ; 
And each took afF his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK 



Qte him strong drink, until he wink* 
That's sinking in despair; 

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid. 
That's orest wi' «rief an* care ; 



There let him bouse, and deep oarouse 

Wi* bumpers flowing o'er, 
1111 he forgets liis loves or debts. 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomons Proveros, xxxi. 6, TL 



Lkt other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacehutk 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us. 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scats bear can mak us. 

In glass or jug. 

O Thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me^till I lisp and wink, 

^ To sing thy name. 

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, 
And Aits set up their awnie horn. 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wail o* food ! 
Or tumbliu' in the boiling flood, 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood 

There thou shines chief 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin j 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin'. 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin* ; 

But oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', 

Wi* rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care j 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair ; 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy silver weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need. 

The poor man's win^ 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rant* ? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents. 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin' on a New-year morning 
In cog or bickft? 



f ' j 


1 
i 4 BURNS' 


WORKS. 


1 An' just a wee drap ip'rituaJ bum in, 
An' gusty sucker ! 

1 


Thou cornea they rattle i' t„eir ranln 


At ither's a — i ! 


When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 


Thee, Ferintosh ! sadly lost ! 


An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 


Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 


O rare ! to see the fizz an' freath 


Now colic grips, and barkin hoa.st. 


V the lugget caup ! 


I\Iay kill us a* ; 


Then Burnewin * comes on like death 


For loyal Forbes' chartered boast 


At ev'ry chaup. 


Ts ta'en awa* ! 


Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 


Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, 


The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel', 


Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 


Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 


Haud up thy ban*, Deil ! ance, twice, thrise ! 


The strong forehammer, 


There, seize the blinkers ! 


• Till block an studdie ring an reel 


An' bake them up in brunstane pies 


Wi' dinsorae clamour. 


For poor d — n'd drinker* 


When skirlin weanies see the Habt, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 


Fortune ! if thou'U but gie me still 


Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky giU^ 


How fumlin' cuifs their dearies slight, 


An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, ! 


Wae worth the name ! 


Tak a' the rest, | 


Nae howdie gets a social night, 


An* deal't about as thy blind skill 


Or pldck frae them. 
j 

When neebours anger at a plea. 


Directs thee best. 




An* just as wud as wud can be, 


- 


How easy can the barley bree 


THE author's 


Cement the quaiTel ; 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 




EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 


To taste the barrel. 






TO THE 


Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; 




SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 


But mony daily weet their weasoa 




1 Wi' liquors nice, 


IN THE 


An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

j Wae worth that brandy, burning trash. 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 




HOUSE OF COMMONS. 






Hort art thou lost ! Parody on MUtin 


Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 
0' half his days ; 






An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 


Ye Irish Lords, Ye Knights an' Squires, 


To her warst faes. 


Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 




And doucely manage our affairs 


Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 


In parliament, 


Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 


To you a simple i k«ets prayers 


Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! 


Are humblv sent. 


It sets you ill. 




Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 


Alas . my roupet Muse is hearse ! 


Or foreign gilL 


Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierct 




To see her sittin* on her a — 


May gravels round his blather wrench, 


Low i' the dust, 


An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 


An' screichin' out prosaic verse, 


Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 


An' like to brust ? 


0' sour disdain, 




Out owre a glass o* whisky punch 


Tell them wha hae the chief direction. 


Wi' honest men. 


Scotland an* me's in great affliction, 




E'er sin they laid that curst restriction 


C Whisky! soul o* plays an' pranks! 


On Aquavita i 


Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 


An rouse them up to strong conviction 


When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 


An' move their pity. 


Are my poor verses ! 




• This wae written before the act anent the St»a.-k 
Disfilleries, of session 1786 ; for which Scotland and 


• Burnewin^Bum-thfwind -the blacksmith — an 


ippropriate title. 


the Author return their most grateful thanlu. 


■ ■ • ^ J 



POSMS. 



Sta- foith, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
The h' est, open, naked truth : 
Tell hi o' nnine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The noi kle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble 1 

Doe^ ny great man glunch an' gloom ! 
Speak . 'it, au' never fash your thumb : 
Let posi an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em '. 
If hones' y they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gat ring votes you were na slack ; 
Now sta. ' as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er cla-- your lug, an fidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise mr arm, an' tell your crack 
Before them a' 

Paint S. otland greeting owre her tbrissle ; 
Her mutch' n stoup as toom's a whissle ; 
An' d-mn'«< *2xcisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin' a stell, 
Triumphant • ushin't like a mussel, 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on tl- tither hand present her, 
A blackguard ^Tuggler right behint her. 
An* cheek-for-o iw, a chuffie Vintner, 

CoUeaguing join, 
Picking her pouvJi as bare as wmter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bea<- the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's uid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld ('ither's pot 

Tbiis dung in staves, 
An plunder'd o' her hi imost groat 

By ^ 'ows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a namele? wight, 
Trode i' the mire out o' sigt 
But could I like Montyumerie. fight, 

Or gab lik. Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad «'.raw tight. 

An' tie some Lise well. 

God bless your Honours, can ye see't, 
I The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet. 

An gar them hear ii^ 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat. 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o you nicely ken the laws, 
To round -.he period an pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran j 
fhee, aith-ietesting, chaste KUherran ;* 



j^n' that glib-gabbtt High ir.d Barob, 

The Laird o' Graham;* 

An* ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarrao, 
Ditndas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay / 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An* mony ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or TuUy 

Might own for britheM 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'U see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in canc'rous mood» 
Her lost Mibtia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskiefi 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' L — d if ance they pit her till't. 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

r the tirst she meets ! 

For G — d sake. Sirs ! then speak her faili 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear, 
To get lemead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cow<; the caddie 
An* send him to his dicing box 

An' sportm' lady. 

Tell yon guid blui^ o' auld Borkonnock* s, 

I'll be his debt twa mashluni bannocks, 

An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnocksy^ 

Nine times a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks. 

Wad kindly seek. 

Gjuld he some commutation broach, 
ril pledge mv aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na tear their foul reproach 
Nor erudition. 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotel -potch, 
The Coalitiun. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle toigue ; 
She's just a devil wi* a rung ; 



* Sir Adam Fergmon. 



• The present Duke of Montrose.— (1800b | 

t A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauch~ 

Rne, where he sometimes studies Pohtics over a glasa 

of guid auld Scotch Drink. 



BURNS* WORKS. 



An* if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 

rho* by the neck she should be strung, 
She'll no desert. 

An* now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty , 
May still your Mither*s heai t support ye : 
Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a* your days, 
Wi' soups o' kail and brats o' claise. 
In spite 0* a* the thievish kaes 

That haunt St Jamie*s I 
Your humble poet sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let haJf-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blithe and frisky. 
She eyes her freeborn martial boys. 

Tak aff their Whisky. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
hile fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches lange, in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves. 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' pouther ; 
rheir bauldest thought's a hajik'ring swither 

To Stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. 
Say, such is royal Georges will, 

An' theie's the foe. 
He has nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him : 
Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi* bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's. 
His latest draught o* breath in' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An raise a philosophic reek. 
An' physically causes seek, 

In clime an' season ; 
But tell me Whisky^s name in Greek 

I'll teli the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
rho' whyles ye moistify your leather. 



Till whare ye sit, on craps o* heather. 
Ye tine your dam ; 

{Freedom and Whisky gang thegither !} 
Tak aff your dram ! 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung with po i son *d crusty 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that Uke the gorget show'd 

Dye-varyinp; on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad. 

He wrant him in Religion. 
Hypocrisy- 



I. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the callar air. 
The rising sun owre Gahton muirf . 

Wi* glorious light was glintin* , 
The hares were hirplin' down the urt» 

The lav 'rocks they were chantiu' 

» Fu' sweet tbdt day. 

II. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin' up the wa^ , 
Twa had manteeles o' dolet'i* black. 

But ane wi' lyart lining j 
The third that gaed a w^«r a-back, 

Was in the fashion ■iHining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

III. 

The twa appeared like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes : 
Their visage vvither'd, lang, an' thin. 

An' sour as ony slaes ; 
The third came up, hap-stap-an'-loup, 

As light as ony lanimie. 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop. 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day 

IV. 

Wi bannet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lasa, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've scan that bonnie fao«, 

But yet I canna name ye.* 
Quo' she, an* laughin' as she spak. 

An* tak's me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck 

Of a* the ten commands 

A screed some day. 



* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of i 
land fur a sacramental occasion. 



POEMS. 



V. 

Mv name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye ha*e ; 
An' this is Svperstition here, 

An* that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin' ; 
Gin ye'll go there, yon riinkled pair, 

We will get famous laughiu* 

At them this day.* 

VI. 

Quoth I, ' With a* my heart I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An* meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith we'se hae fine remarkin* !* 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie time, 

An soon I made nie ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi* monie a weary body, 

In droves that day. 

VII. 
Here faiiners gash, in ridin' graith 

Gaed hoddin* by their cotters : 
Their swank ies young, in braw braid-claith 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang. 

All fans bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

VIII. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the siiow. 

On ev'ry side they're gatherin', 
Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools, 

An* some are busy blether in*, 

Right loud that day. 

IX. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

Au' screen our countra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, 

Are blinkin* at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, 

Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck, 
An' there a batch of wabster lads, 

Blackguardin' frae K ; — ck, 

For/«ra this day. 

X. 

Here some are thinkin' on their sins, 

An* some upo' theili' claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays; 
On this ham! sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces; 
On that a set o* chaps at watch, 

Thrang wiukin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day 



XI. 

O happy is the man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him \ 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes bosif 

Glomes clinkiu' down beside him ! 
Wi* arm repos'd on the chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her necky 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkenn'd that da/. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For speels the holy door 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

*Mang sons o* God present him. 
The vera sight o' *s face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

XIII. 

Hear how he clears the points o* faith 

Wi' rattlin' an* thumpiu* ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He*s stampiu' an' he's jumpin* ' 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eld I itch squeel and gestures. 
Oh, how they tire the heart devout. 

Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a day ! 

XIV. 

But hark ! the tent has chang*d its voice j 
There's peace and rest nae langer : 

For a' the real judges rise, 
They canna sit for anger. 

opens out his cauld harangues 



On practice and on morals ; 
An* aff the godly pour in thrangs. 
To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine. 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heatnen, 
The moral man he does define. 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day 

XVL 

In guid time comes an antidote 
Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 

For , frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 

See, up he's got the word o' God, 
An' meek an* mim has view'd it* 



B 



BURNS' WORKS. 



While Common-sense has ta*en the road. 
An* aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast, that day 



Wee 



XVII. 

neist the guard reliaves. 



An* orthodoxy raibles, 
rho* in his heart he weel believes, 

And thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse 

So cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that daj 

XVIIL 
Now but an' ben, the change-house fills, 

Wi* yilUcaup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint stoup clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' )uud an* lang. 

Wi* logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like, to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

XIX. 

^eeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep. 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep. 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an* lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' Wdy, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an* that ane's leuk. 

They're makin' observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk. 

An' forming assignations 

To meet some day. 

XXI. 

But now the L — d*s ain trumpet touts, 

Till a* the hills are rairin*, 
An* echoes back return the shouts : 

Black is na spairin' : 

His piercing words, like Highland swords. 

Divide the joints au' "narrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell. 

Over very sauls does harrow f 

Wi' fright that day. 

XXII. 

4 vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, 
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane. 



Wha's ragin' hame an' scorchin* hea^ 
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane* 

The half asleep start up wi' fear, 
An* think they hear it roarin , 

When presently it does appear, 
'Twas but some neighbour snorin 
Asleep that day. 

XXIIl. 

*Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past. 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist ! 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' 

Amang the furms an* benches ; 
An* cheese an* bread, frae womeu's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches 

An' dawds that day * 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an* her knift^ 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the graces 

Frae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu* lang that dajr. 

XXV. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae Ihw% 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel' 

How bonnie lads ye wanted. 
An* dinua for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

XXVL 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin* tow. 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they doHTy 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies hak a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi* faith an' hope, an' love an* drinky 

They've a' in famous tune, 

For crack that day. 

xxvn. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their heai-ts o' stane, gic night, are gant 

As saft as ony flesh is 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy j 
An* mony jobs that day begin, 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some ither 'lajr 



* A street so called, which faces the eiU in • 
* Shakespeare's Hamlet 





POEMS. 9 


DEATH AND DOCTOR HORN- 


I red ye weel, tak tare e* siaith. 


BOOK : 


See there's a gujy !* 


A TRUE STORY. 


' Guidman,* quo' he, * put up your whittlet 


Some books are lies frae end to end, 


I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 


And some great lies were never penn'd : 


But if I did, I wad be kittle 


Ev*a Ministers, they hae been kenn'd. 


To be mislear'd, 


In holy rapture. 


I wadna mind it, no, that spittle 


A rousing whid, at times, to vend, 


Out owre my beard. 


Aod nail't wi' Scripture. 






* Weel, weel !' says I, * a bargain be't ; 


But this that I am gaun to tell, 


Come, gie's your hand, an* sae we re gree*t j 


Which lately on a night befell, 


We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 


Li just as true's tlie De'LLs in hell 


Come gii-'s your new* ; 


Or Dublin cdly ; 


This while • ye hae been mony a gate, 


Tliat e'a- he nearer comes oursel' 


At mony a house.* 


'S a muckle pity. 






* Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shook his head, 


The Clachan yDl had made me canty, 


' Its een a lang, lang time indeed 


I was nae fou, but just had plenty ; 


Sin' I began to nick the thread, 


I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye 


An' choke the breath: 


To free the ditches ; 


Folk maun do something for their bread, 


Aji* hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye 


An' sae maun Death, 


Frae ghaists an' witches. 






• Sax thousand years are nearhand fled 


The rising moon began to glow'r 


Sin* I was to the hutching bred. 


The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; 


An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 


To count her horns, wi' a' my power. 


To stap or scar me ; 


I set mysel* ; 


Till ane Hornbook *s f taen up the trade. 


But whether she had three or four, 


An' faith, he'll waur me 


I couldna tell. 






* Ye ken Jock Hornbook, i' the Clachan, 


I was come round about the hill, 


Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! 


And to<llin down on Willes mill, 


He's grown sae weel acquajnt wi' Buckan \ 
An' ither chaps, 


Setting ray staff wi' a' my skill. 


To keep me sicker ; 


The weans baud out their fingers laughin* 


Tho* leeward whyles, against my will. 


An' pouk my hips. 


I took a bicker. 






• See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 


I there wi* Something did forgathe», 


They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart : 


That put me in an eerie swither : 


But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 


An' awfu' scythe, out-owie ae shouther. 


And cursed skill, 


Clear-dangling, hang ; 


Has made them baith no worth a f— t, 


A three-taed leister on the ither, 


Damxi'd haet they'll JuR 


Lay, large and lang. 






* 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen. 


Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 


I threw a noble throw at ane ; 


The queerebt shape that e'er I saw. 


Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 


For fient a wame it had ava ; 


But deil-ma-care. 


And then, its shanks, 


It just play'd dirl on the bane. 


They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' 


But did nae mair. 


As cheeks o' branks. 






* Hornbook was by, wi* ready art, 


' Guid-een,'quo'I ; ' Friend ! hae yebeenmawin*. 


And had sae fortified the part. 


When ither folk are busy sawin' ?* * 


That when I looked to my dart. 


It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan', 


It was sae blunt, 


But naethirifj spak : 


Fient haet o*t wad hae pierc'd the heart 


At length, says I, ' Friend, where ye gaun, 


Of a kail-runt. 


Will ye go back ?' 






* I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 


Ii spak right howe, — ' My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd.'— Quoth I, ' Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my brenth ; 




• An epidemical fever was then raging in that eountrf 
t This gentJem ui, Dr. Hornbook, is, professionall;' 


But tent me, billie : 


a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; bu4 




by intuition and inspiration, \s at ono»an Apothecary 


~ 


Surg«K)n, and Phvsiciaii. 


• This rwcounter hauTcned in aeed-time, 1785. 


t Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 


H 


2 


I 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I nearhantl coiipit \vi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld AfHUhecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
f might as weel hue tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

Ev*n their he canna get attended, 
A.ltho' theii face he ne'er had ken'd it. 
Just ■ in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At once he tells* t. 

An* then a* doctors' saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an* mettles, 
A* kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles. 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

* Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

* Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 
Urinus Spiritus ot capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; 

Distill 'd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins. 

An' mouy mae.' 

* Waes me for Johnny GecTs Hole * now ;' 
Quo' I, ' If that the news be true ! 

His braw calf-ward where gowans grew, 
Sae white an' bonnie, 

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; 

They'll ruin Johnny T 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
An' says, ' Ye need na yoke the pleugh. 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

* Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want o* breath. 
This night I'm free to tak my aith. 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith. 
By drap an* pill. 

* An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred 
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head. 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed. 

But ne'er spak mair. 

* A courtra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some cu.murring in his guts, 



His only son for Hornbook sets. 

An* pays him WfeU ; 

The lad, for twa. guid gimmer pets. 

Was laird himsel* 

' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name. 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wsoM J 

She trusts hersel*, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame. 

To hide it there. 

' That*8 just a swatch o' Hornbooks way ; 
Thus goes he on firom day to day. 
Thus dues he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet steps me o* my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his damn'd dirt. 

♦ But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot. 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self conceited sot, 

As dead's a herrin* ; 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin* '* 

But just as he began to tell. 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell. 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith 
I took the way that pleased mysel*. 

And sue did Death, 



• The fii !ive-digger. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR : 



A POEM. 



Inscribed to J. B- 



-, Esq. Ayr. 



The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plougV, 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the greea 

thorn bush : 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'ef 

the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy independence bravely bred. 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd. 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune* 

field- 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close. 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely singe, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o*er the stringi 
He glows with all the spirit of "-he Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still, if some Patron*s generous care he trace^ 
Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When B befriends his humble laine 

And hands the rustic stranger up to tame. 



POEMS. 



21 



VVitli hpurt-felt throes ills grateful bosom 
-swells, 
Th» godliko t>.) give alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter 

hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap : 
F eta toe bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, 
Unnumoer'd buds an* flowers* delicious spoils^ 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles. 
Are dooni'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o* devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone 

reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev*ry side. 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd fitrld-matcs, bound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds) ! 
Isae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs : 
Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings. 
Except, perha|)S, the Robin's whistling glee. 
Proud o' the height o' some bit huU-lang tree ; 
The hoary morns precede the sunny davs. 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide 

blaze. 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 

the rays. 
*Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity s reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ai/r, 
By whim ins^piied, or haply prest wi* care, 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpsons* wheel'd the left 

about : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 
To witness what I after shall narrate; 
Or whether rapt in meditation high, 
He v/ander'd out he knew not where nor why), 
1 he drowsy J}uHpe(m-clock,-f had number'd two. 
And Wallace tower f had sworn the fact was 

true : 
The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding 

roar. 
Thro* the sti^i t-ght dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd as Nature's cio*ed e'e ; 
The silent n.oob shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard, 
Ihe clanging sough of whistling wings he 

heard ; 
Tiro dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Pwift as the Gos ^ drives on the wheeling hare ; 



♦ / noted tavern at the 4uii Brig end. 

* The two st<ej)les. 

i The g08*hawk, or falcon. 



Ane on th Auld Brig his airy sha[)e uprears^ 

The ither flutters o'er the risinr/ piers : 

Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd 

The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside 

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 

An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain thera, 

And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.^ 

Auld Brig appear 'd of ancient Pictish race. 

The very wrinkles Gothic in his face : 

He seem'd as he wi' Time had wajstl'd lang 

Yet toughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 

New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat. 

That he, at LorCon, frae ane A' I urns got ; 

In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 

Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxiom 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him thus guide'en— 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na', frien', ye'U think ye're nae sheepi- 

shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'll never see ; 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigraaleeries in your noddle 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, 
Wliere twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

meet, 
Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime. 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat 

stream, * 
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, 
Ere they would grate their fee ings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! pufTd up wi' windy pride ! 
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide 
An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn } 
As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
But twa-three winters will inform ye bette. . 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the biawl* 

ing Coil, 
Or stately Lugar^s mossy fountains boil. 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 

course. 
Or haunted Garpal f draws his feeble source. 



♦ A noted ford, just abo\e the Auld Bng. 
t The banks o{ Garpal fVater is one of the fewplac« 



i2 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A.rous d by bltst'ring winds and spotting thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an* brigs, a' to the 

gate; 
A.nd from Glenbuck * down to the Rattan key,^ 
A^uld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
A.nd dash the guralie jaups up to the pouring 

skies, 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architevture, t/owth, I needs must say't 
o't! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate 

o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, gaist-alluring edifices. 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. 
Supporting roofe fantastic, stony groves ; 
Windows aud doors, in nameless sculpture 

drest. 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race. 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest witii re- 
surrection ! 

AULD BRIO. 

O ye, my dear-reraember'd ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 
Ye woithy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, an ye louce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey- 
cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gae your hurdles to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly 

Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the brio, 
Were ye but here, what would )e say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vex- 
ation. 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 



In the West of Scotland, where those fancy .scaring he-- 
bigg, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue 
Oertinaciousl y to inhabit. 

• The souTse of the river Ayr. 

* A small landing-place above the large key. 



Aud agonizing, curse the time and place 

When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! 

Nae langer Rev 'rend Men, x\e\x countiy't 

glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house : 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the counti-y ; 
Men, three parts made by tailors and by ba^ 

hers, 
Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d— — d 

new Brigs and Harboura I 

NEW BRIG. 

Now baud you there ! for faith ye've said 

enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared ; 
To liken them to your auld warld squad, 
I must needs say comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o* scandal : 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the 

street 
In aJI the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' 

raisins, 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
And would to Common-sense, for once betrayed 

them. 
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 

them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had bloou to 

shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear 'd in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danced : 
Bright to the moon their various dresset 

glanced : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlin, * thairm-inspiring sage. 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore 

with Highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs. 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been uobhr fir'd, 
And even his matchless hand with finer touch 

iuspir'd ! 



* A well known performer of Scottish music on thf 



_ j 


POEMb. It 


No gm9s could tell wnat instrument appeal' d, 


He'll clap a shangan on her tail. 


But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 


An* set the bairns to daud her 


Harmonious concert rung in every part, 


Wi* dirt this day 


While simple melody pour'd moviug on the 




heart. 


in. 


The Genius of the stream in front appears, 


Mak haste an* turn king David owre. 


A venerable chief advanced in years ; 


An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 


His hoiiry heaid with water-lilies crown'd, 


O* double verse come gie us four. 


His manly leg with gartir tangle bound. 


An' skirl up the Bangor : 


Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 


This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure. 


Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 


Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her 


Spring ; 


For heresy is in her power, 


llien, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural 


And gloriously she'll whang her 


Joy, 


Wi* pith this day. 


And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 




All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. 


IV. 


Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding 


Come let a proper text be read. 


com ; 


An' touch it aff w'' vigour, 


Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary 


How graceless Ham * leugh at his Dad, 


show, 


Which made Canaan a nigei : 


By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 


Or Phineasf drove the murdering b.advi 


Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride. 


Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; 


From where the Feal wild-woody cove»-ts hide ; 


Or Zipporah, \ the scaulding jade, 


Benevolence, with mild benignant air. 


Was like a bluidy tiger 


A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: 


r the inn that daj . 


Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 




Frorti simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 


V. 


Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a h<ael 


There, try his mettle on the creed, 


wreath. 


An' bind him down wi' caution, 


To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 


That Stipend is a carnal weed, 


The bruken iron instruments of death : 


He taks but for the fashion ; 


At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- 


An' gie him o'er the flock to feed. 


ling wrath. 


An' punish each transgression ; 




Especial, rams that cross the breed. 




Gie them sufficient threshin*, 

Spare them nae day. 




THE ORDINATION. 


VI. 




Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 




An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; 




For sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n— 


Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale 


To please the Mob they hide the little gtv'n. 


Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 




J 


Shall fill thy crib in plenty. 


Kjlmaanock Wabsters, fidge an* claw, 


An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 


An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 


No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 


Of a* denominations. 


VIL 

Nae mair by BabeVs sireanu we'll weep^ 

To think upon our Zion ; 
An' hing our fiddles up to sleep. 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; 
Come, screw the pegs with tunefu* c\.eep, 


Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a*, 
An' there tak up your stations ; 


Then aff to Beybies in a raw. 
An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 


n. 

Curst Common- sense, that imp o* hell, 


An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; 


Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 
An' a like lamb-tails flyin* 

Fu* fast this day 


Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;• 
But aft made her yell, 


An' R sair misca'd her ; 


VIIL 


This day, M' takes the flail. 


Lang Patronage, wi* rod o* aim, 


An' he's the boy will blaud her ! 


Has shored the Kirk's undoin*, 


• Alluding to a scoffing baJlad which was made on 
the adtnisBion of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. 


• Genesis, eh. ix. ver. M. 


♦ Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8. 
i Exodus, ch. iv. ver t!5. 


to the Laigl Kirk. 


1 



14 



BURNS' WORKS. 



As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairrif 

He saw mischief was brewin' ; 
An* like a godly elect bairn, 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

An* sound this day. 



NowR- 



IX. 

- harangue nae mair, 
But steek your gab for ever ; 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your kar, 
Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Nttherton repair, 
An* turn a carper weaver 

AfF hand this day. 



M- 



X. 

and you were just a match, 



We never had sic twa drones ; 
Auld Hnrnie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin* baudrons : 
An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi* a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast, this day. ' 

XI. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein' through the city ; 
Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, wi' his Greekish face. 

Grunts out some Latin ditty : 
An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Seattle 

Her plaint this day. 

XIL 

But there's Morality himsel*, 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin* onions ! 
Now there — they're packed aff to hell, 

An' banish'd our dominions. 

Henceforth this day 

XIII. 
O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality*s demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find qir.rte: : 
M* , R , are tht joys, 

That heresy cs'' ortu. . 
They'll gie L «; on a rape a hoyse, 

/ r' c»,'«rf uer measure shorter 

By the head some day. 



XIV. 

Come bring the tither mutchkin in, 
Ad* here's for 4 conclusion. 



To every New Light * mother's son* 
From this time forth. Confusion ; 

If mair they deave us wi' their din, 
Or Patronage intrusion. 

We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin. 
We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. — 

On nis Text, Malacht, ch. iv. ver. 2. • And tlw; 
shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of he «t«lL' 

Right Sir I your text I'll prove it trae. 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf J 

An' should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Sha'l ever be your lot. 
Forbid xtj, every heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns. 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend JameSy 

To hear you roar and rowte. 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head— • 

' Here lies a famous Sullock /* 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 



O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Power's, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war.— J/itfon, 



O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 

Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in y'>a cavern grim an' sootie, 

Clo "^ ul -Isi ..h.^ S 
Spairges abo-i . *\x^. •■•unstane coutie, 

To soaud poor wretchea 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
An' let poor, damned bodies be ; 



• New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Sect, 
land, for those religious opinions wnich Dr. Taylor of 
Norwich has defended so strenuously. 





^ 


'OEMS. k 


Vm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. 


Is instant made no worth a louse. 


E'en to a deil, 


Just at the bit. 


To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me. 




An' hear us squeel ! 


When thowes dissolve the snawy hooni, 




An* float thejingiin' icy-hoord. 


Great is thy pow'r, an* great thy fame; 


Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 


.•"ar kend and noted is thy name ; 


By your direction, 


An' tho' yon lowin' hough's thy hame, 


An' nighted Trav*llers are allured 


Thou travels far ; 


To their destruction. 


An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 




Nor blate nor scaur 


An' aft your moss- traversing Spunkie$ 




Decoy the vight that late ana drunk "s ; 


Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lionj 


The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeyb 


For prey, a holes and corners tryin' ; 


Delude his eyes, 


Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin*, 


Till in some miry slough lie sunk is, 


Tirling the kirks ; 


Ne'er mair to rise. 


Whyles, in the human bosom pryin*, 




Unseen thou lurks. 


When Masons' mystic word an* gripi 




In storms an' tempests raise you up, 


I've heard my reverend Grcmnie say. 


Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 


In laneiy glens you like to stray ; 


Or, strange to tell 


Or where auld ruin'd castles gray. 


The youngest Brother ye wad whip 


Nod to the moon, 


Aflf straught to hell ' 


«e fright the nightly wand'rer's way. 




Wi' eldritch croon. 


Lang syne, in Eden's bonuie yard, 




When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 


When twilight did my Graunie summon. 


An* all the soul of love they shar'd, 


To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 


The raptur'd hour, 


Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin* ! 


Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird 


Wi' eerie drone ; 


In shady bower : 


Or, rustlin', thro* the boortries comin'. 




Wi' heavy groan. 


Then you, ye auld, suic-drawing dog ! 




Ye came to Paradise incog, 


Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 


An' played on man a cur.sed brogue, 


The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 


(Black be your fa* ly 


Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, 


An' gied the infant world a shog. 


Ayont the lough ; 


'Maist ruined a' 


Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 




Wi' waving sough. 


D*ye mind that day, when in a bizi. 




Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz. 


The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 


Ye did present your srnoutie phiz 


Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. 


'Mang better folk, 


When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick — 


An* sklented on the man of Uz 


Amang the springs, 


Your spitefu* joke 


Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 




On whistling wings. 


An* how ye gat him i* your thrall. 




An' brak him out o' house an hall, 


Let WarCbcki grim, an' wither'd ha^s, 


While scabs and blotches did him gall, 


Tell how wi* you on ragweed nags. 


Wi' bitter claw, 


They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags. 


An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked Scawl^ 1 


Wi' wicked speed ; 


Was warst ava ? 


And in kirk-yards renew their leagues. 




Owre howkit dead. 


But a* your doings to rehearse. 




Your wily snares an* lechtin' tierce, 


Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain. 


Sin' that day Michael * did you pierca, 


Way plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 


Down to this time. 


For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 


Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 


By witching skill ; 


In prose or rhymt. 


An dawtit, twal pint Hawkie's gane 




As yell's the Bill. 


An* now, auld Cloots, I ken * ^ re thinlda 


' 


V certain Bardie's rantin', drink T, 


Thence mvitic kz-Ct" mak great ab we. 


jou • »ucK.e88 »-<)ui vili s^rd ' -u ^'-Vif* 


On yousr G ian.. n, k>'.o keen, an* couse ; 


1 -> y- u - ' ,^ 


^^ l HA vaik-lume 1 the uouse, 
Ely cantr-» wi*. 




Vide MUton. book ti. 


- - - J 



i« BURNS' WORKS 


But, faith he'll turn a corner, jinkin', 


* An' may they never learn the gai^ 


And cheat you yet. 


Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! 




To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an* stRa^ 


But, fare ye weel, auld Ntchie-benf 


At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail 


wad ye tak a thought and men* ! 


So may they, like their great forbears^ 


Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 


For mony a year come thro* the s).e»,r8 : 


Still hae a stake— 


So wives will gie them bits o' brra 1^ 


I m wae to think upon yon den, 


An' bairns greet for them when ttey "i* mm 


Even for your sake ! 






* My poor tooplamb, my son an* ton,J/, 




O bid him breed him up wi' chce ' 




An' if he live to be a beast. 




To pit some bavins in hJs brer.et ! 


THK 


An' warn him, what I winna viaa<e, 


DEATH AND DYING WORDS 


To stay content wi* yow^s at hamq ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his djots, 


OP 


Like itler menseless, g.<-acel4»«, Uates. 


POOR MAILIE, 


* An* neist my i/ou.ie, fiYiy thing, 




Guid keep thee fran i te*har string • 


THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 


O, may thou ne'er fjrgather 'jjj 


^ 


Wi' ony blastit inofirlarid toop : 


AN UNCO MOURNFU TALE. 


But aye keep min<^ to w-oop an' mell 




Wi' sheep o' creait like thyael' ! 


As 3TaiIii, an' her lambs thegither, 




Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 


* An' now, wiy bafras, wi' my last bioatft 


Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 


I lea'e my blcriii' wi* you baith : 


An* owre she warsled in the ditch ; 


An' when yow Chink upo" your mither. 


There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 


Mind to be k-i ' to ane titither. 


When Hughoc* he came doytin by. 




* Now, kionest Hughoc, di»na fail 


Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han*s, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : 


To tell m / caster a' ray tale ; , 


An' bid 1: xrm bui n thio cursed tether, 


He saw her days were near-hand ended, 


An', for tl^ pai^s, thou'se get my bleth* .' 


But, wae's my heart ! he could na mend it ! 


Thit ,airt, poor Mailie turn'd her he» i^ 
And clw< :d he; een amang the dead. 


He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

* O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! 


DOR MAILIE'S ELEGY 


My dying words attentive hear, 


Lam «y r iu rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' sy.brt t.'ars trickling down your riose ; 


An* bear them to my Master dear. 




Ou bardie's fate is at a close, 


' Tell him, if e'er again he keep 


Past a' remead ; 


As muckle gear as buy a sheep. 


ThK last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 


O, bid him never tie them mair 


Poor Maine's dead ! 


Wi* wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 




But ca' them out to park or hill, 


/is no the loss o' warl's gear, 
1 ' it could sae bitter draw the tear, 


An' let them wander at their will : 


So may his flock increase, an' grow 


f a*ak our bardie, dowie, wear 


To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 


The mourning weed f 




he's lost a friend and neebor dear, 


* Tell him, he was a master kin*, 


In Mollis dead. 


An' aye was guid to me an' mine : 




An' now my dying charge 1 gie him, 


Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 


My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 




Wi* kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 
She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faith fu' ne'er cam nigh hini 


bid him save their harmless lives, 


Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers* knives ! 


But gie them guid cow milk their fill. 


Than Mailie dead. 


Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 




An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn. 


I wat she was a sheep o' sense," 


Wi' teats o* hay an* rips o* corn. 


An' could behave hersel' wi* mense . 




I'll say't, she never brak a fence. 

Thro* thiev 3h greed 


• A neebor hercUcaUan. 





POEMS. Mi 


Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 


Hae ye a leisure moment's time 


Sin' Maine's dead. 


To hear what's coiEin' ? 


Or, if he wanders up the howe, 


Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 


Hei living image in her yowe, 


Some rhyme (vain thought \) for needfu* easI^ 


Comes bleating to him owre the knowe. 


Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 


For bits o* bread ; 


An' raise a din ; 


An* down the briny pearls rowe 


For me an aim I neyer fash ; 


For Mailie dead. 


I rhyme for fun. 


She was nae get o' moorland tips, 


The star that rules my luckless lot. 


Wi* tawted ket, an' hairy hips: 


Has fated me the r«sset coat, 


For her forbears were brought in sh'.ps 


An' damned my fortune to the groat ; 


Frae yont the Tweed ! 


But in requit, 


A bonnier ^esA ne'er cross'd the clips 


Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 


Than Mailie dead. 


0' countra wit. 


Wae worth the man wha first did shape 


This while my notion's taen a skksit, 


That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape! 


To try my fate in guid black prent ; 


It maks guid fellows girn an' gape. 


But still the mair I'm that way bent. 


Wi' chokin' dread ; 


Something cries « Hoolii 


An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 


I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 


For Mailie dead. 


Ye'll shaw your folly. 


0, a' ye bards on bonnie Donn / 


' Theie's ither poets, much your betters, 


An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! 


Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 


Come, join the melancholious croon 


Hae thought they had ensured their debtort. 


0' Rubin's reed ! 


A' future ages ; 


His heart will never get aboon 


Now moths deform in shapeless tetters. 


His Mailie dead. 


Their unknown pages. 




Tlien fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 


TO J. S 


To garland my poetic brows ! 


Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 




Are whistling thrang; 
An teach the lanely heights an' howes 
My rustic sang. 


Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 


Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society 1 


I owe thee much ! Biair. 






ril wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 




Dear S , the sleest, paukie thief, 


Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 


That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 


Then, all unknown, 


Ve surely hae some warlock-breef 


I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 


Owre human hearts ; 


Forgot and gone ! 


For ne'sr a bosom yet was prief 




Against your arts. 


But why o' death begin a tale ? 




Just now we're living, sound an' hale, 


For me, I swear by sun an' moon. 


Then top and maintop crowd the sail. 


And every star that blinks aboon. 


Heave care o'er side 


Ye've cost me twenty pair o' sboon, 


And ^arge, before enjoyment's gale. 


Just gaun to see you : 


Let's tak' the tide. 


And every ither pair that's done, 




Mair taen I'm wi* you. 


TV is life, sae far's I understand, 




Is a' enchanted fairy land. 


That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 


Where pleasure is the magic wand. 


To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 


That, wielded right, 


She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 


Maks hours like minutes, hand, in hand, 


On her _^rs^ plan, 


Dance by fu' light. 


And in her freaks, on every feature. 




She's wrote, the Man. 


The magic-wand then let us wield ; 




For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, 


Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, 


See crazy, weary, joyless eild. 


My barmie noddle's working prime. 


Wi' wrinkled face, 


My fjiQcy yerkit up sublime 


Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, 


Wi* hasty Bummon % 


Wi' creepin' pact. 


L_ . ^ [ J 



J6 



BURNS' WORKS. 



When ance Hft^'s day oraws near the gloamin' 
Then faieweei vacant careless roamin' ; 
Ac' faieweeJ I'heerfu' tankards foainin', 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman. 

The joy of joys ! 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning, 
To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Amang the leaves : 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, \m-ky, find a flowery spat, 
For which they never toiled nor swat, 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat. 
But care or pain ; 
And haply eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen hope does every sinew brace : 
Thro' fair, thro' fuul, they urge the race, 

An seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They clos« the day 

An' others like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights nae rules nor roads observin' ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin'. 

They zig-zag on ; 

Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin'. 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining— 
But truce with peevish poor complaining ! 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let h^r gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining. 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 
And kneel, ' Ye pow'rs !' and warm implore, 
' The' I should wander terra o'er. 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye 'owth o' rhymes. 

* Gie dreeping roasts to countra laird», 
Till icicles hing frae their beards : 

Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

An' maids of honour ; 

Aa' yill an whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

* A title, Dempster merits it , 
k garte^ gie to Willie Pitt ; 



Gie wealth to some be- ledger 't cit, 
In cent, per cenl 

But give me. real, sterling wit. 

An* I'm content. 

• While ye are pleased to keep ms bata^ 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose or musUu-kitil, 

Wi* cheerfu* face, 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.* 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's* blows, 

As weePs I may » 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless- blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool. 

Your lives, a dyke 1 

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd nameless faces ; 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimOf solemn basses 

Ye hum away 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're tna», 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys. 

The rattlin' squad ; 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road.— 

Whilst I — but I shall baud me there—. 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang nni/ where- 
Then^ Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi* i/ou to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames 

reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureates Odt, 
with the other parade of June 4, i7«6, the authei 
was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined him- 
self transported to the birth'-day levee ; and in bit 
dreaming fancy, made the f Mowing Address.] 

L 
Guie-mornin' to your Majesty I 

May heaven augment your blisses, 
On every new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levec^ 

On sic a day as this ia. 



POEMS. 



19 



U sure an uncouth sight to see, 
Amang the birth- dav dresses 

Sae fiae this day. 

II. 

I see ye*i » complimentecl thrang, 
By intny a lord an* lady, 
God save the King !' 's a cuckoo saog 
That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd an' ready, 
Wad gar you irow ye ne'er do wrang. 
But aye tineiring steady, 

On sic a day. 

Ill 

For me . befort a monarch's face, 

Ev'n t/ie}-e I winna flatter ; 
For neither pensi«)n, post, nor place. 

Am I your humlde debtor : 
So nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to l)espatter ; 
There's nionie waur been o' the race, 

An* aiblins ane been l)etter 

Than you this day. 

IV. 

Tis very true, my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
Aji' now the third part o* the string. 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 

V. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith ! I muckle d()ul)t, my Sirtf 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

"Wad better fiU'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

VI. 

An' now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scaice a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease^ 

Nae bargain wearing faster. 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

r the craft some day 

vn. 

Tm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' WilFs a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 
hat he intends to nay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges : 



But, God-sake ! kt nae saving Jit 
Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

VIII. 
Adieu, my Liege f may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

An' gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My tealty an' subjection 

This great birth-dajr 

IX. 

Hail, Majesty ! Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accei)t a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye? 
Thae bonnie bairutime, Heav'n has len^ 

Still higher may they heeze ye. 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

X. 

For you, young potentate o' Whales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling saL 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye biak Diana's pales, 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

XL 

Yet aft a ragged cou}te\ been known 

To mak a noble aiver : 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne. 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him • at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
An' yet wi' funny queer Sir John,^ 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day 

XII. 

For you, right rev rend Osnahrug, 

Naue sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth, ye'li stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XIII. 

Ywing royal Tarry Breeks, I leaiUf 
Ye've lately come athwart her ; 



• King Henry V. 

t Sir John Faistaff, vUe Shakespeanu 



so 



BURNS' WORKS 



A. glorioits galley* stem an stern, 
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 

Bat first haag out, that she'll discern 
Your hymeneal charter, 

Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 
An' large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guld as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British hoys awa", 

For kings are unco scant aye; 
An' German gentles are but sma^y 

They're better just than want aye 
On onie day. 

XV. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro*. 

It may be bitter sautet ; 
An' I hae seen their cnggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that da> 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST.f 

The sun had closed the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play. 
An* hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards gre*' 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has be». 

The thresher's weary Jlingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me : 
And whan the day had closed his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i* the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That hll'd wi' hoast- provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggi* 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time. 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An* done nae-thing. 



* Alluding to the newspaper account of 8 CMtain 
royal sailor's amour. 

t Dtuin, a term of Osslan'sfor the different divisions 
of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. li. of 
M'Pher&on't translation. 



But stringin' bietaeis uj* in rhyme 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I mighc, by this, nae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

My cash account : 
^iiile here, half-mad, half- fed, haJf-sarkr 

Is a* th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! c,/' 
And heav'd on high my wauki'' \^i. 
To swear by a' yon starry rr of. 

Or some ra^h a:'ib. 
That I, henceforth, wo»ld l*e ihy.aepr^ 

TilJ mj las/t breath— 

When click ! tnp st? ^nf, the sneck did dr«« 
An' jee ! the doa. g'.ed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ing'^-' -.w; J sa^r, 

Fow bleezin bright, 
A tight ju /Ja .d* ^h Hizzie braw, 

Come full in sight 

Ye nee^ n doubt, I held my whisht 
The iaftat airh half-form'd was crush't ; 
I g'oT r'*' au eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
^«'i 'weat, hke modest worth, she blash't, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-houghiy 
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An* come to stop those reckless vows, 

Would soon been br(Aea* 

A * hair-brain*d, sentimental trace* 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev*n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honoof 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only pear it ; 
Sae straught, sae tap^**, tight, and clean, 

Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, thoeV 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd to my astonish'd view, 

A well known And. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost J 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast 

With surging foam ; 
There» distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 



POEMS. 



Aeiu. Doon pour'd down Ms iar-fetch'd floods; 
rhere, well-fed Irioine stately tliuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods. 

On to the shore ; 
And many a esser torrent, scuds, 

Wit'j. seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borough reai'd her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To every nobler virtue bicd, 

And polish'd grace. 

By states) tow'r or palace fair. 
Or rbins penrlent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seera'd to muse, some seeni'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 
To see a race * heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seera'd to reel 

Their suthron foes. 

His CouNTRv's SAViouR.t mark him well ! 
Bold Richardtons \ heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark § wlio glorious fell, 

in high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade |l 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race pourtray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,^ 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit bauntii for friendship or for love 

In musing mood), 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe,** 
The learned sire and son I saw. 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore. 



• The Wallaces. j William Wallace. 

i Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im- 
mortal nreserver of Scotlisli independence. 

I Wallace, LaJrd of Craisie, who was second in com- 
mand, under Doufjlas Earl of Ormond, at the famous 
battle on the banks of Sark. fought anno 1 448. That 
glorious victory was principally owinj; to the judicious 
conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of 
Craigie, who lied of his wounds after the action 

i' Cdilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district 
of Kyle is saio to take iLs name, lies buried, as tradi 
tion .4ys, near the family-seat of the Montf^omeries of 
Coilsneld, where his burial place is still shown. 

% Barskimming, the seat ot the late Lord Justice. 
Clerk. 

•* Catrine, the s<»it of th late Doctor, and present 
Prof»«ior Stttwart. 



This, all its source and end to draw. 
That, to adore. 

Brydon^s brave ward * I well could apy 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eve , 
Who call'd on Fame, low stantiing by-. 

To hand him on. 
Where »-iany a patriot-name on high. 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'niy-seeming/a/r ,- 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear. 

Of kindred sweet. 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

* All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ; 

Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low, 

I come to give thee such reward 
As we bestow 

* Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band. 

Who, all beneath his high command, 
Harmoniously, 

As arts or arms they understand. 

Their labours ply 

* They Scotia^s race among them share { 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 

Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart: 

Some teach the bard, a darling care, 
The tuneful art. 

' 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gortf 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

* And when the bard, or hoary sag^ 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the e/e. 

' Hence Fullarton, the brave and ycung; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Heuttie sung 

His " Minstrel lays j** 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung. 

The sceptic's bays. 

* To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of buman-kmd. 



Colooe Fullaitoii. 



22 



BURNS' WORKS 



The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

* When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 
Blithe o'er the hill. 

* Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

* Some bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Sard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

' Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

* With future hope, I oft would gaze. 
Fond on thy little early ways, 

Thy rudely caroU'd, chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymes. 

Fired at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

* I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 

Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro* the sky, 

I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

* Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'rets birth, 
And joy and musi: pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

* When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 

I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys, 

And lonel) stalk, 

To vent thy bosoi^^'s swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

* Whtm youthful love, warm-blushing, stiang, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 

Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th adored Name^ 



I taught thee how to pour in song. 

To soothe thy fiam<. 

* I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By Passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Wa-s light from heav«i 

' I taught thy manners-painting straini 
The loves, the ways of simple swains 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become thy friends. 

* Thou canst not learn, nor can I show 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With S/ienstone*s art ; 
Or pour, with Grat/, the moving flow 
Warm on the heart. 

' Yet all beneath th* unrivaU'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows : 
Tho' large the fort>st*s monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the gladc 

* Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi\s mine. 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermafcching thine, 
A rustic Sard. 

* To give my counsels all in one. 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust the Universal plan 

Will all protect. 

* And wear thou this,' — she solemn s&id 
And bound the Holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID 



RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims make r nil 
And lump them aye thegitl T} 

The Rij^id Ri^/iteuus is a fool 
Tlie Rt£r,d IVise aiuther.- 



POEMS. 



23 



llie cleanest com that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o* caff in ; 
Sae ne'er a fellow^reature slight 

For random fits o' daflfin.— 

So/omon.— -Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. 



YE wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious an' sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do hut mark and tell 

Your neehour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like 4 weel gaun mill, 

Suppl; 'd wi' store o' water, 
The heapit happer's ebhing still. 

Ami still the clap plays clatter. 

II. 

Hear me, ye venerable core. 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Follv's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

III. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 

An' shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ f 
Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in, 
An' (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eterndl gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i* your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 

It maks an unco lee-way. 

V. 

See social life and glee sit dawn, 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmogrified, they're g^rowK 

Del)auchery and drinking : 
O woul4l t^ey stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state 

Damnation of expenses ' 

VI. 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor frailti/ names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

^e're aiblins :ac temptation. 



VII. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving whi/ they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark. 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

VIII. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various tenet 

Each spring — its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly mRy compute. 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGIT 



An honest man's the noblest work of God i 



Has auld K- 
Or great JV'l'- 
Or R 



- seen the Deil ! 

-+ thrawn his heel ? 



I again grown weel 

To preach an* read ? 
' Na, waur than a* !' cries ilka chiel, 

' Tarn Samson^s dead ! 

K lang may grunt an' grane. 

An' sigh, an* sab, an' greet her lane, 

An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean. 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tarn Samson's dead 

The brethren of the mystic level, 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel. 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ! 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel. 

Tarn Samson's dead ' 

When winter muffles up his cloak. 
And binds the mire like a rouk ; 
When to the lochs the curle'-s flock, 

. Wi' gleesome speed ; 
Wha will they statifcjn at the cock ? 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core. 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 



• When this worthy old sportsman went out last 
muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's 
phrase, ' the last of his fields !' and expressed an ar- 
dent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On thil 
hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. 

t A certiiin preacher, a great favourite with the mil- 
lion. Fide the Ordination, Stanza II. 

X Another preaclier, an equal favourite with the few 
who wa.s at that time ailing. For him see also tlie Or 
dination Stanza IX. 



24 



BURNS* WORKS. 



I)r up the rink, like Jehu roar, 

In time o' need ; 

But now he lags on death's hog-score. 

Tain Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail. 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail. 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail, 

Tarn Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a* ; 
Ve cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fiid fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa*, 

Tarn Samson's dead 

That waefu* morn be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin* graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae cou[)les freed ! 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return 'd ! 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age bis body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

Tam Samson's deat 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, 
An* aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
L — d, five !' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger ; 
Tam Samson's dead I 

ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
nk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, 
Marks out his head, 
Whare JBurnsi has wrote, in rhyming blether, 
Tavi Samson s dead ! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest : 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu* muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed 
Alaa ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
ind sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O pouther an' lead, 



I Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson*s dead ! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish 0* mony mae than me : 
He had twa fauts, or may be three. 

Yet what remead? 
Ae social, honest man, want we : 

Tam Samson's dead 



THE EPITAPH 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay hero ae% 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth m heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye won near him. 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' KilUe,* 
Tell every social, honest billie, 

To cease his grievin 
For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samsons Uvin 



HALLOWEEN, t 

[The following poem will, by many readers, be weO 
enough understood ; but for the sake of those who 
are unacquainted with the manners and traditionsol 
the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, 
to give some account of the principal charms and 
spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the pea- 
santry in the West of Scotland. The passion of prjF- 
ing into futurity makes a striking part of the history 
of human nature in its rufle state, in all ages and 
nations; and it may be some entertainment to a 
philosophic mind, if any such should honour the 
author with a perusal, to see the remains of it a 
mong the more unenlightened in our own.] 



Ves ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the glcss of art 

GoldsmOk 



I. 
Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downans\ dance. 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prances; 
Or for Colean the route is ta'ck., 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ! 



• Killie is a phrase the country folks sometimes use 
for Kilmarnock. 

t Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and 
other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on theii 
baneful midnight errands; particularly those aeriail 
people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold 3 
grand anniversary. 

i Certain little' romartic, rocky, green hills, in th« 
neighbourhood o£ the ancient seat of the Earls of Ca& 
Bilis. 



POEMS. 



25 



Tliere, up the cove,* to stray an* rove 
Amang the rocks and streams, 

To sport that night 

II. 

Amang the bonnie winding banks 

Where Doon rins, wimpHn', clear, 
Where Bruce f ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, fiiendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene. 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An* hand their Halloween 

Fu' blithe that night. 

III. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when their fine ; 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' ga i.-. 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin* 

Whyles fast at night. 

IV. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks \ maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een, an' graip an* wale. 

For niuckle anes and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aif the drift, 

An' wauder'd thro' the bow-kail, 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

V. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nana, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' caonie care, they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 



• A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The 
Cove of Culean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, is famed 
in country story for being a favourite haunt for fairies. 

fThe famous family of that name, the ancestors of 
Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls 
of Carrick. 

t Ihe first ceremony of Halloween, is pulling each 
a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in 
hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first thev meet 
with ! Its being big or little, straight, or crooked, is 
prophetic of the size and shape of the graml object of 
\11 their spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, or 
earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and 
the taste of the aistoc, that is the heart of the stem, is 
Indicative of the natural temper and disposition. — 
Lastly, tne stems, or, to give them their ordinary ap- 
pellation, the runts, are placed »*/meAhcre above the 
head of the di>or; and the diristian names of ihe peo- 
ple whom chance brings into the house, are, according 
lo the priority of placing the runts, the names in ques- 
*30O. 



VI. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang tliem a 

To pou their stalks o' corn ;* 
But Rab s'ips out, and jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl 'd a' the lasses; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiuttlin' in the fause-house^ 

Wi' him that night 

VII. 

The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits^ 

Are round an' numd divided, 
And monie lads and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthy, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa' wi' saucy pride. 

An' jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that uighti 

VIII. 

Jean slips in twa wi' ten tie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me. 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fuff! he started up the lum, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that nightt 

IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runtt 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt. 

To be compar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor hy jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 



Nell had the fause-house in her min*, 
She pits hersel* an' Rob in ; 

In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 
Till white in ase they're sobbin* : 

Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 
She whisper'd Rob to look for't ; 



* They go to the barn yard, and pull each, at thre« 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third "taiK wantj 
the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, 
the pany in question will come to the marriage-bed 
any thing but a maid. 

t When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too 
green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old tim- 
ber, &c. makes a large apartment in his stack, with an 
opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the 
v/ind ; this he calls a fause-house- 

X Burning the nuts' is a favourite charm. Tlieyuame 
the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay thera 
in the fire, and accordingly as they hum quietly toge. 
ther, or start from beside one another, the coits* and 
issue of the courtship will be. 





«6 BURNS 


' WORKS. 


Rob, stowlina, prie'd her bonnie mou, 


The si Mirer li.irl been cauld an' wat. 


Fu' cozie ia the neuk for't, 


An* sthif nas unco greeii , 


Unseen that night. 


Vn' ay.' a r.mtin kirn we gat, 




An* just on Halloween 


XI. 


It fell tlmt nigh* 


But Merran sat hehint their backs, 




Hgr thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 


XVI. 


She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 


" Our stibblo-rig was Rab M'Graen, 


And slips out l)y hersel' : 


A clever, sturdy fallow ; 


She thro' the yard the nearest taks. 


He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean. 


An' to the kiln she goes then, 


That liv'd in Achmacalk : 


An' darklins graipit for the banks, 


He ga.t hemp-seed,* I mind it weel, 


And in the blue chie* throws then, 


An' he made unco light o't ; 


Right fear't that night 


But mony a day was bi/ hiinstC, 




He was sae sairly frighted 


XII. 


That vera night.* 


An* aye she win't, an' aye she swat, 




I wat she made nae jaukin ; 


XVII. 


Till something held within the pat. 


Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 


Guid L — d ! but she was quakin* ! 


An' he swoor by his conscience. 


But whether 'twas the Dei! himsel*, 


That he could saw hemp-setd a peck ; 


Or whether 'twas a bauk-en, 


For it was a' but nonsense ! 


Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 


The auld guid-man raught down the podi 


She did na wait on talk in' 


An' out a handfu' gied him ; 


To spear that night. 


Syne bad him slip frae *mang the folk, 




Sometime when nae ane ^ee'd him, 


XITI. 


An' try't that night 


Wee Jenny to her Graunie says, 




" Will ye ffo wi* rae, graunie? 


XVIII. 


V\\ eat the apple ^ at the glass. 


He marches thro' amang the stacks, 


I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 


Tho* he was something sturtin. 


She fulTt her pipe wi' sic a lunt. 


The graip he for a harrow taks. 


In wrath she was sae vap'rin', , 


An* haurls at his curpin : 


She notic't na, an aizle brunt' 


An' ev'ry now an' then he says. 


Her braw new worset apron. 


" Hemp-seed I saw thee, 


Out thro' that night. 


An' her that is to be my lass, 




Come after me, and draw thee, 


XIV. 


As fast this night." 


" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 




How daur ye try sic sportin', 


XIX. 


As seek the foul Tliief ony place, 


He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, 


For him to spae your fortune ; 


To keep his courage cheery ; 


Nae doubt but ye may get a sight I 


Altho' his hair began to arch. 


Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 


He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 


For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 


Till presently he hears a squeak. 


An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret 


An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 


On sic a night. 


He by his shouther gae a keek, 




An' turabl'd wi' a wintle 


XV. 


Out-owre that nigkt 


** Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 




I mind 't'as weel's yestreen, 


XX. 


I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 


He roar'd a horrid murder shout. 


I was na past fyfteen : 


In dreadfu' desperation ! 




An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, 
To hear the sad narration ; 




• * Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
■trictly observe these- directions: Steal out, all alone. 






to the kUn, and, darkling, throw inro the -pot a clue of 


* Steal out unpereei ved and sow a handful cf hemfv-. 


blue yarn ; wind it in a new clue off the > Id one : and. 


seed; harrowing it with anything you can convenient- 


towards the latter end, something will hold the thread. 


ly draw after you. Repeat now and then, • Hemp-seed 


demand M)^/ hands i i. e. who holds? an answer will 


I saw thee; hemp-seed 1 saw thee; and hini (or her) 


be returned *"rom the kiln-pot, by naming the Chris- j 


that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou 


tian and sirnam^ of your future spouse. 1 


thee.' Look over your '.eft shoulder, and you will se« 


t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; 


the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude 


eat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you 


of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, 'come after 


should comb your hair all the time ; the face of your 


me, and shaw thee," that is, show thyself: in which 
case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, 


conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as 


/peeping over your shoulder. 


and say, • come after me, and harrow the*.' 





?OEMS. 



81S 



He swoor 'twas hilchiu Jean M'Craw, 
Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 

TirV stop ! she trotted thro' them a* ; 
A >' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night . 

XXI. 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane, 

To win three wechts o' naething ; * 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nit^ 

An' twa reil cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera night. 

XXII. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw 

An' owre the threshold ventures; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca*, 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A ration rattled up the wa'. 

An' she ciy'd, L — d preserve her ! 
An' ran thro* midden-hole an* a*, 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that n ght. 

XXIII. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

Then hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he fuddnrnd thrice,\ 

Was limiiier-prapt for thrawin ; 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousonie carlin ; 
An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 

Aif' s nieves that night. 

XXIV. 

A. wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlen ; 
But Och ! that night, amang n shaws, 

She got a learfu' settliu' I 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn. 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin', 
Whare three lairds lands met at a burn,\ 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 



♦ This charm must likewise be perforrr.ed unper- 
«eived, and alone. Vou go to the barn, and open both 
doors, taking ihem off the hinges, if possible; for theie 
is danger, that the being about to appear, may shut 
the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that 
instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in ou 
country dialei-t, we call a wec/it, and go through all thi 
Ittilddl-s of letting down corn against the wind. Re 
pear it three times; and the third time an aj)parition 
will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and 
out at the other, having both the figure in question, 
and the ap|)earanct or retinue, marking the employ 
ment, or iiiaiion in lifa. 

t Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a 
Benr-stick, and raihom it three times round. I he 
last fathom of he last time you will catch in your 
arms the appe» <ince of your future conjugal yokC' 
fellow. 

± You f •> out, one or more, for this is a social spell, 
lo a souil, 'nning spring or rivulet, where ' three 
lairds' Lands meet, and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go 



XXV. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter 'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi* bickeiing, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the biaes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

XXVI. 

Amang the brackens, on the brae> 

Between her an* the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey. 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Ne'er lavrock-height she jumpit. 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night* 

XXVII. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stan^ 

The luggies three * are ranged. 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en. 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mar's-year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice. 

He heav'd them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An* unco tales, and funnie jokes. 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery : 
Till butfer'd so'ws,f wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o* strunt, 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blithe that night. 



to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve be- 
fore it to dry. Lie awake ; and some time near mid- 
night, an apparition, having the exact figure of the 
grand object m question, will come and turn thesleevr 
as if to dry the other side of it. 

* Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul 
water in another, leave the third empty; blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes 
are ranged : he (or she) dips the left hand ; if by 
chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife 
will Come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the 
foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretolls, with 
equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated 
three times, and every time the arrangemei t of the 
dishes is 'altered. 

t Sowens, with butter instead of milk (t them, ia 
always the Halloween Shipper. 



*, 


7H BURNS* 


WORKS. 


THE 


When thou was corn't, an* I was mellow, 




We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 


AULD FARMER'S 


KJrW-TEAR MORNING SALOTATION TO HIS 


For pith an' speed j 




But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow. 


AULD MARE MAGGIE, 


Where'er thou gaed. 


ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPPOF CORN 


The sma*, droop- rumpl't, hunter cattle, 


TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 


Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 




But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 


A Guid New- Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 


An* gar't them whaizle s 


Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie . 


Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 


Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 


O' saugh or hazel. 


I'vn seen the day, 




Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 


Thou was a noble fittie-larC, 


Out-owre the lay. 


As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 




Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 


Tho* now thou's dowie, stiflF, an* crazy, 


On guid March weather, 


An* thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 


Hae turn'd sax rood beside our ban'. 


I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, au' glaizie, 


For days thegither. 


A bonnie gray : 




He should been tight that daur't to raize thae. 


Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskifc 


Ance in a day. 


But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. 




An' spread abreed thy weel-tiU'd brisket. 


Thou ance was i* the foremost rank. 


Wi' pith an' pow'r. 


A flly buirdly, steeve, an* swank. 


Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, 


An' set weel down a shapely shank 


An' slypet owre. 


As e'er tred yird ; 




An* could hae flown out-owre a stank, 


When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 


Like onie bird. 


An' threaten'd labour back to keep. 




I gied thy cog a wee bit heap 


It's now some nine-an'-twenty year. 


Aboon the timmer : 


Sin' thou was my guid father's meere ; 


I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 


He gied me thee, o' tocher clear. 


For that, or simmer. 


An* fifty mark ; 




Tho* it was sma*, "twas weel-woa gear, 


In cart or car thou never reestit ; 


An* thou was stark. 


The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 




Thou never lap, and sten t, and breastit, 


When fir«t I gaed to woo my Jenny, 


Then stood to blaw | 


Ye then was trottin' wi* your minnie : 


But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 


Tho* ye was trickie, slee, an* funnie. 


Thou snoov't awa. 


Ye ne'er was donsie, 




But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie. 


My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a . 


An' unco sonsie. 


Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 




Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 


That day, ye pranc'd wi* muckle pride. 


That thou hast nurst t 


When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : 


They drew me thretteen pund an* twa, 


An' sweet an* giacefu* she did ride, 


The vera warst. 


Wi' maiden air ! 




Kt/le Stewart I could bragged wide, 


Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrougH 


For sic a pair. 


An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 




An' monie an anxious day, I thought 


Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an* hobble, 


We wad be beat ! 


An' wintle like a samount-coble. 


Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 


That day ye was a jinker noble. 


Wi' something yet. 


For heels an* win* ! 




An* ran them till the> a' did wauble. 


And think na, my auld, trusty servan ; 


Far, far behin'. 


That now perhaps thou's less deservin', 




An' thy auld days may end in starvin'. 


Whea thou an' I were young and skeigh, 


For my last ybw, 


An* stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 


A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 


How thou wad prance, an' snore, an* skreigh. 


Laid by for you. 


An' tak the road ! 




Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 


We've worn to crazy years thegither; 


An' ca't thee mad. 


We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 


-f. 





Wi* teiitie care I'll flic thy tether, 

To some bain'd rig, 

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
Wi' sma' fatigue. 



POliMS. 

FMit, Ocl 



TO A MOUSE, 



•V TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THK 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na' start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
A.n* justities that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion 

An' fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou man live ! 
4. daimen xktr in a thrave 

"S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave. 

An' never miss't ' 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell an' keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wastfe. 
An* weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro* thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now th{ u's turn'd Jut, for a' thy trouble. 

But house or hald, 
Fj thole tiie winter's sleety dribble. 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mouste thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men. 

Gang aft agley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain, 
For promis'd ioy. 

Still thou art blest, co npar'd wi' me ! 
The f resent • '»lv toucheth thee : 



I backward cast my e e 

On prospects drear : 
An' forward, though I canua see, 

I guess an* fear* 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfetl side* 
Your loop'd and window'd rag<ieriness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ? — Shaksepearc. 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r ; . 
When Phoebus gi'es a short-liv'd glower 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark' ning through the flaky show*r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked* 
Wild -eddying swirl, 
j Or through the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle< 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That in the merry month o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thet » 
Whare wilt thr*u cow'r thy chittering wing. 

An' close thy e'e? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The blood- stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoir<l 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain. 

Slow, solemn stole— 

' Blow, blow, y winds, with heavier guit 
And freeze, ye L.tter-biting frost ; 
Descend, ye chilly, smotheriug snows ; 
Not all your rage, as now, united, showi 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice unrepenting, 



so 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Than heaven-illumin*d man on brother man 
bestows ! 
See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land ! 
Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side. 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind. 

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some courser substance, unrefined, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, 
below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tendet throe, 
With lordly Hopour's lofty brow, 
The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble riame, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares. 
This boasting Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
P&rhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom firiends and fortune quite disown ! 
ni-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to 
sleep. 
While thro' the rugged roof and chinky wall, 
Cbill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
"I'he wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? 
AfRiction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the 
bliss !' 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage -rousing cr» . . 

But deep this truth impressed my tiind— 

Thro' all his works abroad. 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET. * 



January 



I. 



While winds frae afF Ben-Lomond blaw^ 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the .^gle, 
I set me down to pass the time. 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. 

In hamely westlan' jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drif^ 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sae bien and snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 

II. 

Its hardly in a body's pow'r 
To keep at times frae being sour, 
To see how things are shai'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want. 
While coofs on countless thousands ran^ 

An' ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head. 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread. 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
* Mair speir na, nor fear na'f 
Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

IIL 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thiiiy 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then, content could make u» blest; 
Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba*. 
Has aye some cause to smile ; 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' : 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farthei can we fa*. 

IV. 

What though, like commoners of air, 
We wander out we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woodi^ 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And bla' /vbirds whistle clear. 



* David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, an 
author of a volume of poems in the Scottish dia.'eel> 
f Ramsav. 





1 
POEMS. 8' 


With honest joy our hearts will bound, 


It warms me, it charms me. 


To see the coming year : 


To mention but her name ; 


On braes when we please, then, 


It heats me, it beets me. 


We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 


And sets me a' on flame ! 


Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 


IX. 


And sing't when we hae done. 




all ye Powers who rule above ! 


V. 


Thou whose very self art love f 


It's no in titles nor in rank ; 


Thou knowest my words sincere ! 


It's no in wealth likp Lon'on bank, 


The life-blood streaming thro* my hearty 


To purchase peace and rest ; 


Or my more dear immortal pait. 


It's no in making muckle mair : 


Is not more fondly dear ! 


It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 


When heart-corroding care and grief 


To mak us truly blest ! 


Deprive my soul of rest. 


If happiness hae not her seat 


Her dear idea brings relief 


And centre in the breast, 


And solace to my breast. 


We may h". wise, or rich, or great. 


Thou Being, AU-seeing, 


But never can be blest : 


O hear my feavent prayV ; 


Nae treasures, no* pleasures, 


Still take her and make her 


Could make us sappy lang ; 


Thy most peculiar care ! 


The heart ay'es the part aye. 


X. 


That makes us right or wrang. 


All hail, ye tender feelings dear! 


VI. 


The sm/le of love, the friendly tear. 


Think ye that sic as you and I, 


The sympathetic glow ; 


Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry 


Long since, this world's thorny ways 


Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 


Had numbered out my weary days. 


Think ye, are we less blest than they, 


Had it not been for you ! 


Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 


Fate still has blest me with a friend. 


As hardly worth their while ? 


In every care and ill ; 


Alas ! how oft in haughty mood, 


And oft a more endearing band, 


God's creatures they oppress ! 


A tie more tender still. 


Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 


It lightens, it brightens 


They riot in excess ? 


The tenebrific scene, 


Baith careless and fearless 


To meet with, and greet with 


Of either heav'n or hell ; 


My Davie or my Jean. 


Esteeming and deeming 




It's a' an idle tale ! 


XI. 




0, how that tiame inspires my style ! 


VII. 


The words come skelpin' rank and file^ 


Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 


Amaist before I ken ! 


Nor make our scanty pleasures less. 


The ready measure rins as fine, 


By pining at our state ; 


As Phoebus and the famous Nine 


And, even should misfortunes come. 


Were glowriu' owre my pen. 


I here wha sit, h;ie met wi' some, 


My spaviet Pegasus will limp. 


An's thankfu' for them yet. 


Till ance he's fairly het ; 


They gie the wit of age to youth ; 


And then he'll hiltch, and stilt, and jimp^ 


They let us ken oursel'; 


An* rin an' unco fit : 


They make us see the naked truth, 


But lest then, the beast then, 


The real guid and ill. 


Should rue his hasty ride, 


Tho' losses and crosses, 


I'll light now, and dight now 


Be lessons nght severe, 


His sweaty wizen'd hide. 


There's wit there, ye'll get there. 




Ye'll find nae other where. 




VIII. 


THE LAMENT, 


But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 


OCCASIONED BY THELTAFORTUN ATE ISSUX '.V • 


^To say aught else wad wrang the cartes. 


FRIENo's AMOUR. 


And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 






And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the hearty 


Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itsel/ 


And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe l>^H<Uim 




The lover an' the frien' ; 


I. 


Ve hae your Meg, your dearest part, 


THOO pale orb, that silent shines. 


And I my darlin/ Jean I 


While care-uutroubled mortals sleep ' 


-1 



1 



32 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Thou seest a wretch that Inly pine8, 
And wanders here to wail and weep I 

With woe I nighcly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; 

A.nd mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

II. 

f joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart be still ! 

Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ! 
\h I must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 

III. 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-loin lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

Ni fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The pligh;ed faith; the mutual flame; 

The oft-attested Powers above; 
The promised Father's tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 
And must I think it ? is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear ray groan } 

And is she ever, ever lost ! 



V. 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsraooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will sooth ? 

Her sorrows share and make them less ? 

VI. 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast. 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ 'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd. 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

VII. 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 
Awakes me up to toil and woe : 

I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suflfer, lingering, slow. 

^all many a pang, and many a throe, 
Keen recollection's direful train. 



Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, liW, 
Shall kiss the distant, westerr r.iain. 

VIII. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief. 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief ; 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore afi'right : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brin_gs relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

O ! thou bright queer, who o'er th' expand 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless svys,\ 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly wandering, stray : 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 

X. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ' 

Scenes, never, never, to return ' 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY 



I. 

Oppress'© with grief, oppress'd with a 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load. 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 

What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thrOf 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing. 

Must be my bitter doom « 
My woes here shall close ne'er. 
But with the closing tomb ! 

II. 

Happy ye sons of busy life. 
Who, equal to the bustling strife^ 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd. 
Yet while the busy means are ply'di 

They bring their own rewaid : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd Alight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning nigAt, 

And joyless morn the same ; 



POEMS. 



33 



Yoa, bustling, and justling, 
Forget each grief and pain ; 

I, listless, yet restless. 

Find ev'ry prospect vain. 

III. 

Raw blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot. 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits. 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high. 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than I, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep traced, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and jvst to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not. 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 



V. 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill-exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ] 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim declinmg age I 



WINTER 



I. 

tat "wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw 
Whilp tumbling brown, the burn comes down. 

And roars frae bank to brae } 



And bird and beast in covert rest. 
And pass the heartless day. 

IL 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ereMt,** • 

The joyless winter-day. 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soiK, 

My griefe it seems to join. 
The leafless trees my fancy please. 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

IIL 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure , 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. — Gra^» 



My 



I. 

honou 



■'d, much respected 



lov'd, my 
friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, 
My dearest meed, a frieud's esteem and 
praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 

The native feelings strong, the guilelesi 

ways ; [been ; 

What Aitken in a cottage would hav« 

Ah ! tho his worth unknown, far happier there^ 

I ween ! 

IL 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; 
The short'ning winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their 
repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 

This night his weekly moil is at an end^ 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes, 
Hoping the mnrn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course doei 
I hameward bend. 



13 



Dr. Young. 



34 



BURNS' WORKS 



III. 

At fengtli his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher 
thro' [an' glee. 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichteriu' noise 
His wee hie ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
A id makes him quite forget his labour an' his 
toil. 

IV. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun*, 
Some ca* the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
fin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town ; 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e. 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new 
gown, 
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

V. 

Wj* joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 

The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd 

fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother^ wi' her needle an' her shears. 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
new ; 
llie father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

VI. 

Their master's an* their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are wained to obey; 
4nd niiud their labours wi* an eyedent hand. 

And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
* An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 

Implore his counsel and assisting Hiight : 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright !* 

VIL 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door- ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleaa'd the motlr?r hears it's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 



VIIL 
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny L/ings him ben ; 
A strappin youth ; i.e taks the mother's eye; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. [joy 

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi 
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel 
behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sa« 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her hairns respected like 
the lave. 

IX. 
O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heart-felt raptures ' bliss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare— 
< If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale.' 

X. 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— 
A wretch! a villain ! losr to love and truth! 
That can, with studied, siy, ensnaring ar*,. 

Betray sweet Jenny^s unsuspecting youths 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child I 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild ? 

XL 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board, 
Thehalesomepf^/jT/ZcA, chief o'6'cofm's food : 
The sowpe their only Hawkie does afford. 
That 'yopt the hallan snugly chows her 
cood : 
The dame brings forth in c«. mpi\mental mo6d» 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck 
fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' to( 
bell. 

XIL 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
The big ha'-Bibh, ance his fathtjr's pride . 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare t 

Those strains that once did sweet tv Zioa 
Rlide, 



POEMS. 



3d 



He «ra]es a portion witli judicious care ; 
And ' Let us worship God !' he says, with 
solemn air. 

XIII. 

rhey chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 

aim : [rise ; 

Perhaps Dundee*s wild warbling measures 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble JElyin beets the heav'n-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart- felt raptui es raise ; 
Nae nnison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 

How Ahram was th.^ friend o/GoDon high; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal hard did groaning lie [ire ; 
Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging 
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 
Or froher holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was 

shed ; [name, 

How He, who bore in Heaven the second 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 

How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, [laud : 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel >tand ; 
.\nd heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by 
Heaven's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal 

King, [prays : 

The saint, the father, and the husband 

Hope ' spriugs exulting on triumphant wing,* 

That thus they all shall meet in future 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, [days : 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Creator^s praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

XVII. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In ail the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Pow''r, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But hapiy, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well-pleased, the language of the 
soul ; 
Anu in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 



• Pope's Windior Forest 



xviir. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'rai way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The |)areut pair their secret homage pay. 

And proffer up to He;ivtn the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest. 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered 
abroad •. 
Princes and lor»is are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work ol 
God !" 
And certes, it. <air virtue's heav'nly road, 

The cottagi /eaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in afts of hell, in wickedness refined ' 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wi&h to Heaven k 
sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil. 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, O ! may Heav'n th^ir simple lives pre- 
vent 
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile . 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their muck- 
loved Isle. 

XXI. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 
That stream'd thro' Wallace's uudauntM 
heart ; 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward . ) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot and the patriot hard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard ! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN 



L 

When chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare. 

One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 
Along the banks of Ayr, 



36 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I I 



i I 



I spy d a man, whjse aged step 
Seem'd weary, worn with care; 

His face was furrow'd o'er with yearS; 
And hoary was his hair. 

II. 

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrais^ 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

III. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out- spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

O man ! while in thy early years, 

Hew prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thjr precious hours ; 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, 

That man wasVoade to mourn. 

V. 

Look not alone on youthful prime. 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him ou the edg« of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, Oh ! ill-match'd pair 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VI. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in every land. 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

VIL 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills, 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
MoMi pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heav'n -erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Mak»8 countless thousands mourn 



VIIL 
See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd w^^ 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petftion spurn. 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

IX. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave— • 

By Nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and pow*r 

To make his fellow mourn? 

X. 

Yet, let not this too much, my soiif 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is suiely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man. 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

XI. 

O Death ! the poor man's dearest firiei v. 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That, weary-laden, mourn ! 



A PRAYER 



IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATB. 



L 

O THOU unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an \xo\xt. 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

IL 

If I have wander'd in those patbi 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast^ 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

IIL 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed i 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching 
Has often led me wrong. 



POEMS. 



3" 



IV. 

Wheie human weakness has come short, 

Or j'railty stept aside, 
Do thou, All Good ! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

V. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 

Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 



Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

« 

Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dis- 
pense. 
Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Thin how shou'id I for heavenly mercy pray, 
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation 
ran ? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
blow, 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 
Those headlong furious passions to con- 
fine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be. 

To rule their torrent in th* allowed line ! 
C «id me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine I 



L'riNG AT A REVEREND FRIEND S HOUSE ONE 
MIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING 



VERSES, 



IX THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT 



THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 
I know thou wilt me hear. 



When for this scene of peace ano ove, 
I make my prayer sincere. 

II. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stA ke. 
Long, long be pleased to spaiie, 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And show what good men are. 

III. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

IV. 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youtt^ 
In manhood's dawning blush ; 

Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 
Up to a parent's wish ! 

V. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray. 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

VI. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n. 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in Heav'n ! 



THE FIRST «>SALM. 



The man, in life wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like tne tiees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



S8 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A PRAYER, 

4BKB tat PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

THOU Great Being ! what thou art 
Surpasses me to know : 
t sure am I, that known to thee 
A,re all thy works below 

rhjr creature here before thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
0, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves, 

To bear and not repine. 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF 

THE NINETIETH PSALM. 

O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the nwuntains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command ; 

That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds 

This universal frame. 
From countless, unbeginning time, 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years, 

Which seem to us so vast. 
Appear no more before thy sight, 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou gav'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought 
Again thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men. 

Return ye into nought !' 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
\8 with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They floirish like the morning flow'r^ 

In beauty's pi'ide array'd ; 
But long ere night cut Hown, it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE D3WN WITH THE rU^^QU, III 

APRIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 

Thou bonnis 



Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonny Lurk, companion meet . 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast. 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 
The purpling east. 



Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble, birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm. 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yitld, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stare, 
Adorns the histie stibble-Jield, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies I 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet Jioweret ot the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soii'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd. 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Oi prvdent lore^ 
Till billows rage, and t;ales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er 

Such fate to svffering worth is giv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has striv o, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n tlioi! wiio nu>iir?i'>t the Daisy s faAe, 
That fate is thine — no distant date: 





1 


FOEMS. 3» 


Stem Rui"**'* plough-share drives, elate, 


EPISTLE TO A YOITNG FRIEND 


Full on thy bloom, 




Till crash i beneath the furrow's weight, 


may , 1786. 


Shall be thy doom ! 


I. 




I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friencib 
A something to have sent you, 






Tho' it should serve nae other end 


TO RUIN. 


Than just a kind memento ; 




But how the subject-theme may gang, 


I. 


Let time and chance determine ; 


All hail ! inexorable lord ! 


Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 


At whose destruction-breathing word, 


Perhaps turn out a sermon. 


The mightiest empires fall ! 


IL 

Ye'Il try the warld soon, my lad, 
And, Andrew dear, believe me. 


Thy cruel; woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 


A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stetu-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 

And quivers in my heart. 
Then low ring, and pouring, 


Ye'U find mankind an unco squad; 

And muckle they m ly grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set youi" thought, 

E'en when your end's attained ; 
An a' your views may coruf to nmight. 


The storm no more I dread ; 


Where ev'ry nerve ix straiiutd 


Tho' thick'ning and blackn'ing, 


jll. 


Round my devoted head. 


I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 




The real, haiden'd wicked, 


JI. 


Wha hae nae check but human law. 


And thou grim power, by life abhorrM, 


Are to a few restricted ; 


While life a pleasure can afford, 


But och, mankin 1 are unco weak. 


Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : 


An' little to be trusted ; 


No more I shrink appail'd, afraid ; 


liselftht wavering balance shake, 


I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 


Its rarely right adjusted ! 


To close this scene of care ! I 




When shall my soul, In silent peace, 


IV. 


Resign life s jot/less day ; 


Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife 


My weary heart its throhbings cease. 


Their fate we should na censure;, 


Cold mouldering in the clay ? 


For still th' important end of life 


No fear more, no tear more, 


They equally may answer ; \ 


To stain my lifeless idce ; 


A man may hae an honest heart, 


Enclasped, and grasped 


Tho' poortith huurly ^^tare him , 


Within my cold embrace ! 


A man may tak a neebor's part, 




Yet hae nae cash to spare him. | 

V. 

Aye fi-ee aff han* your story tell. 




TO MISS L , 


When wi' a bo«om crony ; 




But still keep something to yoursel' 


WITH BZAIltE's POEMS, AS A NKW-TEAR's GIFT, 


Ye scarcely tell to ony. 


JAN. 1, 1787. 


Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 




Frae critical dissection ; 


Again the silent wheels of time 


Bat keek thro' every other man, 


Their annual round have driv'n. 


Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. 


And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime« 


VI. 


Are 80 much nearer Heav'n. 




The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd lov«» 


No gifts have I from Indian coasts 


Luxuriantly indulge it ; 


The infar t year to hail ; 
I send you nire than India boasts 


But never tempt th* illicit rove, 


Tho' naething should divulge it 


In Edwin i simple tale. 


I wave the quantum o' the sin, 


The hazard of concealing ; 


Our sex with guile and faithless love 
I» charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 


But och ! it hardens a' within, < 


And petrifies the feeling ! 


But may, dear maid, each lover prore 


VII. 


An Edwin utill to you ! 


To catch dame Fortune's golden uaUm, 




Assiduous wait upon herj 







40 DUIINS' 


V/0PJv3 


And gather gear by cT'iy wD* 


Par BOW he'd ts*en anither shore. 


That's justiBed by honour ; 


An* owre the «ea. 


Not for to hide it in a hedge, 




Nor for a train-attendant ; 


The bonnie lassies weel may wiss him, 


But for the glorious privilege 


And in their dear petitions |)lace him ; 


Of being independent. 


The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him. 




Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 


VIII. 


For weel I wat they'll salrly miss him, 


The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 


That's owre the sea. 


To baud the wretch in order ; 




But where ye feel your honour grip, 


Fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ' 


Let that aye be your border : 


Hadst thou ta'en aflf some drowsy bummelj 


Its slightest touches, instant pause — - 


Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble. 


Debar a' side pretences ; 


'Twad been nae plea 


And resolutely keep its laws, 


But he was gleg as ony wumble. 


Uncaring consequences. 


That's owre the sea. 


IX. 


Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear. 


1 The great Creator to revere, 


An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 


Must sure become the creature ,■ 


Twill mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, 


But still the preaching cant forbear, 


In flinders fiee ; 


And ev'n the rigid feature : 


He was her laureat monie a year, 


Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 


That's owre the sea 


Be complaisance extended 5 




An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 


He saw misfortune's cauld nor-Wfut 


For Deity offended ! , 


Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 




A jillet brak' his heart at last, 


X. 


111 may she be ! 


When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 


So, took a birth afore the mast, 


Beligion may be blinded ; 


An* owre the sea 


Or, if she gie a random sling, 




It may be little minded : 


To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 


But when on life we're tempest-drWn, 


On scarce a bellyfu* 0' drummock. 


A conscience but a canker — 


Wi' his proud, independent stomach 


A con espondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 


Could ill agree ; 


Is sure a noble anchor. 


So, row't his hurdies in a harnmockf 


XI. 


An' owre the sea. 


Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 


He ne er was gi'en to great misguidiag 


Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 


Yet coin his pauches wad na bide in ; 


May prudence, fortitude, and truth. 


Wi' hid it ne'er was under hiding ; 


Erect your brow undaunting ! 


He dealt it free : 


In ploughman phrase, * God send you speed, 


The muse was a' that he took pride in. 


Still daily to grow wiser ; 


That's owre the sea. 


And may you better reck the rede. 




Than ever did th' adviser ! 


Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 




An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 




Ye'U find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o* glee : 




ON A SCOTCH BARD, 


He wadna wrang'd the vera deil. 

That's owre the sea. 


GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 


Fareweel, my rh^ me-composing hillitS 




Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 


A* YE wha live by soups 0* drin-k, 


But may ye flourish like a lily, 


A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 


Now bonnilie ; 


A' ye wha live and never think, 


I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie. 


Come mourn wi* me ! 


Tho' owre the sea. 


Our hillie's gi'en us a* a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 






Lament him a' ye rantin core, 


TO A HAGGIS. 


Wha dearly like a random-splore. 




Kae mair he'll join the merry roar, 
In social key ; 


Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face. 


Great chieftain 0' the puddin-race J 



POEMS. 



Aboon them a* ye tak your place, 

Paiach, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your h'jrdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o* need, 
While thro* your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi* ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin*, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. 
Till a* their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums j 
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow. 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, 
On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash. 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro* bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 
The trembling earth resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll make it whissle ; 
An* legs, an* arms, an heads will sned. 
Like taps o' thrissle 

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies j 
Bat, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication. 
To rooze you up, an' ca* you guid. 
An' sprung o* great an' noble bluid. 
Because ye're 8uroame<l like his gracCj 
Pwhaps relate^ to the race ; 



Then when I'm tired — and sae are ffe, 
Wi' mony a fulsouie, sinfu' lie. 
Set up a face, hew . stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' tham wha 
Maun please the great folk for a waraefu* ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; 
And when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit, / can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin*. 
It's just sic poet an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid »ngel help him, 
Or evse, I fear some ill ane skelp him ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet. 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie mej 
I winna lie, come what will o' me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be. 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse 
Till aft his goodness is abused ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; 
As master, landlord, husband, father 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a* that { 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature. 
Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Punotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in needy 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane. 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ; 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust ia 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ' 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re, 
But point the rake that taks the do(yr : 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane. 
And baud their noses to the grunstane ; 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three mile pray'rs, an' half-mile gra«e% 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an" lang wry face* ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. 
And damn a* pai-ties but your own • 



12 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Pn \K»x:aiit then, ye're uie deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch behever. 

ye wha leave the springs of Calvin^ 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delviu ! 

Ve sons of heresy und error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword !n wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When ruin, with his sweeping esom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him: 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, 
And strikes the ever -deep' ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me. 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works 1 did review, 
To dedicate them. Sir, to You t 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel*. 

Then patronise them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said ever pray. 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayW, 
That kens or hears about you. Sir — 

" May le'er ral^fortune^s gowling bark, 
Howl thro the dwelling o' the Clerk I 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 

May K 's far honoured name 

Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 

Till H s, at least a dizen. 

Are frae her nuptial labours risen : 
five bonnie lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual raya, 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe. 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !'* 

1 will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion ; 

But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances. 
By sad mistakea, and black miachances, 



While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly lum, 

Make you as poor a dog as I am, 

Your humble servant then no more ; 

For who would humbly serve the p*.«- ! 

But, by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ' 

While recollection's power is given. 

If, in the vale of humble life. 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 

Should recognize my master dear, 

If friendless, low, we meet together. 

Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother 



TO A LOUSE 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADy's BONNM A 
CHURCH. 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ? 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho* faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner. 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's hafiet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight. 
Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight : 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it. 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O* Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nos* CiSti 
As plump and grey as ony grozet ; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet. 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't. 

Wad dress your drod/* im ' 

1 wad na been srjirprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyiiecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardie /fie, 

How dare ye do't ! 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makia* ! 



POEMS. 



4S 



TLae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 
Are notice takiu' ! 

O wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oiirsels as others see us I 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion \ 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH 



[. 

Edin'A ! Scotin^s darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

S.it legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

II. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide. 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod} 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Ill 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind. 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail. 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name- 

IV. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine : 
I see the sire of love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine ! 

V. 

There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold veteran, grey in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: 
The pon'drous wall and massy bar. 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'd the invader's shocki 



VI, 

With aAve-struck thought, and pitying team* 

I view that noble, stately di me. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Famed heroes, had theii royal home. 
Alas ! how changed the times to come 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam 1 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

VII. 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps. 

Whose ancestors in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore • 
E'en / who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply my sires have Wt Cne\r shed, 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar. 

Bold- following where your fathers led I 

VIII. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rS; 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov' reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL Ist, 1785 

While briers an' woodbines budding greto, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en. 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen. 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien* 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin' . 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin', 

Ye need na doubt : 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breart; 

A to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel. 
What gen'rous, maniy bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, * Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?* 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. 
And sae about him the;e I spiert^ 



44 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Then a* that ken't him round declarea 
He had ingine, 

That nana exceU*d it few cam near't, 
It was sae fine. 

That set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', 

Or witty catches, 
Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an* graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude and rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel* 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer,, like, by chance, 
An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
And say, * How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 
To mak a sang T 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're may be wrang 

What's a* your jargon o' your schools, 
four Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sains your grammars? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools. 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o* dull conceited hashes, 
Ck)nfuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses. 

Plain truth to speak; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o* Greek ! 

Gie me ae spark o* Nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 
At pleugh or cai-t, 
My muse, though hamely in attire. 

May touch the heart. 

O for a spunk o* Allan* s glee. 
Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my fiiend to be, 
If I can hit it ' 



That would be lear eneugh for me ? 
If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae fr lends enow, 
Tho* real friends, I b'lieve are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist. 
Bat gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna bkw ibout mysel ; 
As ill I like my faults to tell ; 
But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me 
Tho* I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me. 

At dance or fair ; 
May be some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But Maitchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware 

Wi' ane anither 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An* kirsen him wi* reekin* water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an* tak our whitter. 
To cheer our heart ; 
An* faith we'se be acquainted better 
Before we part. 

Awa ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think that bavins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love and friendship, should give plac« 

To catch the plack I 
I dinna like to see your face. 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who holn your being on the terms, 

' Each aid the others,* 
Come to my bowl, come to my srms, 

My friends^ my brothers 

But, to conclude my lang epistle^ 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whissle. 

Your friend and servant 



I 



PuEMS, 



U 



TO THE SAME. 

APRIL 21, 1795. 

Whit e new-ca'd ky« rout at the stake, 
An* pownies reek in pleugh or brake, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted auld Lapraik 

For his kind letter. 

Foijesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hours bite, 
Ify awkart muse sair pleads and hegs, 

I would na write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy. 
Quo' sL* * Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 

This month an' mair. 
That trooth my head is grown right dizzie, 

An' something sair.' 

Her dowflF excuses pat me mad ; 
' Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad ! 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night j 
60 dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

* Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose y*u sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
fet ye*ll neglect to shaw your parts. 

An' thank him kindly !' 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 
Quoth I, * Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winna mak' it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it!' 

Sae I*ve begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, 
O some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak proof; 
But 1 shall scribble down some blether 
Just cleap aff loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp 
Tho fortune use you hard an* sharp ; 
CoQW,, kittle up your nnnrland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp ; 
She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, 
Sin I could striddle owre a rig ; 
Bn/t, by the L — d, tho' I should beg, 
Wi* lyart pow, 



I'll laugh, an* sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lang's I dow ' 

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmei) 
I've seen the bud upo* the timmer. 
Still persecuted by the limmer, 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

/, Mob, am here 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent. 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 
And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A JSailies name ? 

Or is't the paughty feudal thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane^ 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps an' bonnets aff are taen. 

As by he walks ? 

• O Thou wha gies us each guid gift I 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift. 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift 

Thro' Scotland wide • 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. 

In a' their pride !' 

Were this the charter of our state, 
' On pain o' hell be rich and great,' 
Damnation then would be our fate. 

Beyond remead ; 
Bat, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the human race began, 
' The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

An' none but he P 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The ragged followers o' the Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' ^owi^ 
Their worthless nievefu' 0' a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies. 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 
In some mild spherei 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties, 

Each passing year. 







16 BURNS* 


WORKS. 


TO W. S N, 


We'll gar our streams ana burnies shine 




Up wi' the best. 


OCHILTREE. 






We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 


May 1786. 


He" moors red- brown wi* heather bells, 


I GAT your letter, winsome Willie : 


Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells. 


Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 


Where glorious Wallaot 


Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 


Aft bure the gree, as story tells. 


An' unco vain, 


Frae southern billies. 


Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 


j 


Your fiat^erin' strain. 


At Wallace* name what Scottish blood j 




But boils up in a spring- tide flood ! | 


But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 


Oft have our fearless fathers strode 


I sud be laith to thmk ye hinted 


By Wallace' side, ! 


Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 


Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, j 


On my poor musie ; 


Or glorious died. I 


Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 


1 


I scarce excuse ye. 


sweet are Coila s haughs an' woodSy I 




When lintwhites chant among the buds, | 


My senses wad be in a creel, 


An' jinkin hares, in amorous whids, 


Should I but dare a hope to speel, 


Their loves enjoy, 


Wi' Allan jr wi' GUbertJkld, 


While thro* the braes the cushat crooda 


The braes of fame ; 


With wailfu* cry ! 


Or Ferguson, the writer chiel, 




A deathless name. 


Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 




When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 


(0 Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 


Or frost on hills of Ochiltree 


III suited law's dry, musty arts ! 


Are hoary grey ; j 


My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 


Or blindmg drifts wild-furious flee, 


Ye E'librugh Gentry ! 


Dark'ning the day ! 


The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, 


1 


Wad stow'd his pantry !) 


Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms 




To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 


Yet when a tale comes i' my head. 


Whether the summer kindly warms 


Or lasses gie my heart a screed. 


Wi' life an' light. 


As whyles they're like to be my dead. 


Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 


(O sad disease!) 


The lang, dark night ! 


T kittle up my rustic reed ; 




It gies me ease. 


The Muse, nae poet ever fand her. 




Till by himsftl he learn'd to wander, 


Auld Colla now may fidge fu' fain. 


Adown some trotting burn's meander, 


She's gotten poets o' her ain. 


An' no think lang ; 


Chiels wha their chant*rs winna hain, 


sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder 


But tune their lays, 


A heartfelt sang ! 


Till echoes a' resound again 




Her weel-sung praise. 


The warly race may drudge and drive, | 




Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 1 


Nae poet thought her worth his while, 


Let me fair Natures face descrive, 


To set her name in measured style ; 


And I, wi' pleasure, 


She lay like some unkenned of isle 


Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 


Beside New-Holland^ 


Bum o'er their treasure 


Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 




Besouth Magellan. 


Fareweel, ' my rhyme-composing brither 




We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 


Ramsay an' famous Ferguson 


Now let us lay our heads thegither. 


Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 


In love fraternal : 


Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 


May Envy wallop in a tether. 


Owre Scotland rings, 


Black fiend, infem»i \ 


While Irwin 1 Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 




Nae body sings. 


Whijc baghlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; | 




While moorian' herds like guid fat braxies ; i 


Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an* Seinet 


While terra firma on her axis 


Glide sweet in monie a tunefu* line ! 


Diurnal turns. 


But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 


Count on a friend, in faith and practice. 


An' cock your crest, 


Ik Robert Burns. 







POEMS. 



47 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Mr memory's no worth a preetf j 

I had araaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this new-light,* 

Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an* sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gi'e. 
But spak iheir thoughts in plain braid lallana. 

Like you or me. 



In thae auld times, they thought the 
Tust like a sark, or pair o* shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An* shortly after she was doiie, 

They gat a new ane. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It na'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an* wad confute it, 

An* ca'd it wrang ; 
An muckle din there was about it, 

Baith toud an' lang. 

Some herds, weel learn 'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; 
For 'twas the a«W moon turn'd a neuk, 

An* out o* sight, 
An' backlins-corain', to the leuk. 

She grew mair bright 

This was deny*d, it was affirm *d ; 
The herds and kissels were alarm'd ; 
The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an* storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi* hearty crunt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an* brunt. 

This game was play*d in monie lands, 
An auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the youngsters took the sands, 

Wi' nimble shanks. 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe. 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now actaist on ev'ry knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 



• Sae Note, p. X4. 



An* some, theii new- light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac*d. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are b'.eatis* 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Some auld-light herds in neehor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak' a flight. 
An' stay a month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them ; 
An* when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e then, 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them* 

Just i' their pouch. 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a ' moonshine matter ;* 
But tho' dull prose- folk Latin splatter 

In logic tufeie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE; 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o* cocks for fun and drinkin' ! 
There*8 mony godly folks are thinkin'. 

Your dreams * an* trickf 
Will send you; Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straight to auld Nick'fe. 

Ye ha*e sae monie cracks an' canta 
And in your wicked, drucken rants. 
Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 
Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it. 

The lads in black ' 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 
Rives' t aif their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye' re skaithing 
It's ju„£ the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 
To ken them by. 



* A certain humorous dream rt his was then ioc> 
ing a 9<Hae in the oountry-side. 



i8 

Frae ony unregenerate neathen 

Like you or I. 



BURNS WORKS 



Fve sent you here some rhymicg ware, 
A that I bargain'd for an' mair ; 
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care. 
And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
Fve play'd mysel a bonnie spring. 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
rd better gaen and sair'd the king 

At Bunker's Hill. 

*Twas ae night lately in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 

An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun. 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was I'ttle hurt ; 
I straikit it a wee for sport. 
Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 

Buft, deil-ma care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note. 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat. 

An' pay't the/ee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an* by her tail, 

I vow an* swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale. 

For this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockin' time is by, 
An* the wee pouts begun to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by. 

For my gowd guinea ; 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For*t, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither brokeu wing nor limb, 
But twa-three drap? about the wame, 

Scarce thro' the fefi4L«i» j 
\n' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
S5o I can rhyme nor write nae mair. 
But pennyworths again is fair. 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



WRITTEN IN 



* A $ong he had promiaed the Author. 



FRIARS CARSE HERMITaGR 

ON NITH-SIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 

As youth and love with sprightly danos, 
Beneath thy morning star advance. 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup. 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up- 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spui'n the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-piuion'd, bold. 
Soar around each cliffy hold. 
While cheerful peace, with linnet songf. 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose; 
As life itself becomes disease. 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease, 
There ruminate with sober thought. 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and xmmt^ 
And teach the sportive younker's roun«t. 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fete. 
Is not. Art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind. 
As thou thyself must shortly find. 
The smile or frcswn of ^wftil HeaT*L# 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
3ay, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways. 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awak«> 
Night, where dawn shall never breaii« 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 



POEMS. 



4» 



Stranger, go ! IIeav*n be thy gtiide! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE, 

SACKED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OF 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hatigman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with uiihououred years, 
Noosin? with oare a bursting pnrse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd l)eldani's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? 

Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose 

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied. and unblest ; 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A •vhil° forl)ear, ye tort'ring fisnds), 
Sees, thou wnose step unwi.img miner oenJs ? 
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
Tii thy trusty qiumdam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy tiery fate, 
Slie, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail. 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 
In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 
O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 
Empires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



ELEGY 



TAPTAH MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A G??iTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR 
HIS HONOURS IMMEn ATELY FROM Aly- 

MIGHTY r.on ! 



But now his radiant course Is run, 
For Matthew's courje was bright I 

His soiil was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, Hea\'*nly light I 



O Death ! il.i.u tyraut fell and bloody; 
Tim mrikle devil wi a woodie 



Haurl thee hame to his black sraiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 
Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torO| 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Wlicre, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns. 
That proudly nu-k your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers f 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers; 

.Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye buruies, wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; 
Ye Woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bow*r» ; 
Ye roses on your thornv tree. 

The first o* flo\v*rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed 

I* th' rustling gale. 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my waiL 

Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro* a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover j 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals 5 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shores 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay. 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r. 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow r, 
Sets up her horn» 



SfO BURNS 


WORKS 


Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 


Here lies w ha weel had ron thy pnuK, 


Till waukrife morn ! 


For Matthew was a bright man 


O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 


If thou at friendship's sacred ca'. 


Oft have yc heard my canty strains : 


Wad lite itself resign, man : 


But now, what else for me remains 


Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'. 


But tiles of woe ; 


For Matthew was a kind man. 


An' frae my een the d rapping rains 




Maun ever flow. 


If thou art staunch without a staiup 




Like the unchanging blue, man ; 


Mourn, spring;, thon darling of the year ! 


This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 


Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 


For Matthew was a true man. 


Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 




Shoots up its head. 


If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 


Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear. 


And ne er guid wine did fear, man j 


For him that's dead . 


This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 




For Matthew was a queer man. 


Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 




In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 


If ony whiggish whingin sot. 


Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 


To blame poor Matthew dare, man 


The roaring blast, 


May dool and sorrow be his lot, 


Wide o'er the naked world declare 


For Matthew was a rare man. 


The worth we've lost ! 
Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 






Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling stainies bright, 


LAMENT OF MARY QUEFJ« 


My Matthew mojirn ! 


OF SCOTS, 


For thj-ough your orbs he's ta'en his flight. 




Ne'er to return. 


ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 


Henderson ! the man, the brother ! 


Now Nature hangs her mantle green 


And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 


On every blooming tree, 


And hist thou cross'd that unknown river, 


And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 


Life's dreaiy bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another. 


Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 


The world around ! 


And glads the azure skies ; 




But nought can glad the weary wight 


Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 


That fast in durance lies. 


In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 




But by the honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 


Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 


Aloft on dewy wing ; 


And weep the ae best fellow's fate 


The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 


E'er lay in earth 


Mikes woodland echoes ring ; 




The mavis mild wi' many a note, 




Sings drowsy day to rest : 






In love and freedom they rejoice. 


THE EPITAPH. 


Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 


STor, passenger ! my story's brief 


Now blooms the lily by the bank. 


And truth I shall relate, man : 


The prin)rose down the brae ; 


I tell nae common tale o' grief. 


The hawthorn's budding in the glec 


For Matthew was a great man. 


And milk-white is the slae : 




The meanest hind in fair Scotlanii, 


If thou uncommon merit hast. 


May rove their sweets amang ; 


Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 


But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 


K look of pity hither cast, 


Maun lie in prison Strang. 


For Matthew was a poor man. 






I was the Queen o* bonnie France, 


If thou a noble sodger art. 


Where happy I hae been ; 


Tluit passest by this grave, man ; 


Fu* lightly raise I in the morn, 


There moulders here a gallant heart, 


As blithe lay down at e'en : 


For Matthew was a btive man. 


And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 




And mony a traitor ther«» • 


If thou on men, their works and ways. 


Yet here I He in foreign bands, 


Canst throw uncommon light, man 


And never ending care. 



POEiMS. 



But as for tKee, thru false woman, 

My sister and my fae. 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping olood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That neer wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's fa». 

Or turn their hearts tc» thee ; 
And where thou meefst thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, mav summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let wmter round me rave ; 
A.nd the next flow'rs tliat deck the spring, 

Bloora on my peaceful grave. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. 



Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 

About to beg a pass for leave to heg ; 

Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 

(Nature is adverse to a cripple's restj ; 

Will generous Grahum list to his jioet's wail ? 

(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her 

tale). 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found. 
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the 

ground : 
rhou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, 
In all th' onmipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

drug, [snug. 

Tht priest and hedge-hog, in their robes are 
Et'd silly woman has her warlike arts, [darts. 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded sjjear and 

But OH ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked crhild — the Bard ! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the opening dun 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 



No horns, hut those by luckless Hymen won*. 
And thiise, alas ! not Amalthea's horo : 
No nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur. 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
^He bears th' unbroken blast from every side • 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame ■, 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

Kis heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' diring into madness stung; 
His well-wor bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear ; 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife 
The hapless poet flounders on through life, 
Till fled each hope thit once his bosom fired, 
And fled eich muse that glorious once inspired 
Low sunk in .«quihd, unprotected age, 
Dead, even resentment, for his injured page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 

r<ige ! 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed de» 
ceased, 
For half-starvM sn irling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tuirging l»itch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar fro>t, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup. 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; [serve, 
ConsciiMJs the bounteous meed they well de- 
They only wonder ' some folks' do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
Atid thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
And jiist conclude ' that fools are fortune's c:u-e. 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign- post stands the stupid ox, 

Nof^ so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-strud 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ; 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 

(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears) : 
O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'i '. 
Fintra, my other stay, Irng bless and ftpaie! 



)2 



BURNS' WORKS. 



rhro' a long life his hopes a id wishes crown, 
\.nd bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
Vlay hliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circHng the bed of 
death ! 



LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL 
OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow fr.ie the nills, 

By fits the sun's departing beanri 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding streani : 
Beneath a eraigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and nieikle paiu, 
En loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was moiild'ring down with 
years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The relics of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the a^ed year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

•' I am d bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the s[)ring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before t'ne storm. 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
."'or silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' that would my sorrows shara 

" And last, (the sum of a' my griefs).' 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
the flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay: 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
A ad hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled. 



" Awake thy last sad voice, my har| • 

The voice of woe aud wild despiur S 
Awake, resound thy latest lay. 

Then sleep in silence evermair } 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That Sliest an untimely tomb. 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou broxight from fortune's mirkeat glooi 

" In poverty's low barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou four^'st me like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering ca-re. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did 1 live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ! 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; ^ 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me !" 



LINES, 

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF WHITEFOKBji 
BART. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'at, 
Who, save thy ^nin'fs repriMtch, nought earthljf 

fcar'st, 
To thee this votive off^iving I impart, 
" The te.irful tribute of a broken heart." 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he is gone. 
And tread the dreary path to that dark W9r<d 

unknown. 



TAM O' SHANTER 



A TALE. 



Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Bvke. 

Gawin Douglatt 



When chapman billies leave the street^ 
And drouthy neebors, neebors 



POEMS. 



59 



A» market-daj's are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to'tak the gate; 
While we sit housing at the nappy, 
An' getti-n' fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That He between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o* Shunter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonny lasses). 

O Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kates advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka mtlder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy 'd, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep diown'd in Doon 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in tlie mirk. 
By All'uway^s auld haunted kuk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How niony lengthen 'd ^age advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale ; Ae market night. 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Turn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
' Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tain did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, road to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes winij'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blesr, Init Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like pQppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ! 
Or like the snow-falU in the river, 
A moment wh-'^^ — then melto for ever: 



Or like the boreal is race, 

That flit ere you can point their place j 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; 

The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 

That hour, o* night's black arch the key-8^4n« 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast inr 

And sic a night he taks the road in. 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 
That night, a child might understand. 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg^^ 
A better never lifted leg — 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares. 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk- Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry- 
By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whaie in the sniiw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And p;ist the bilks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Munc/o's mither hanged hersel.— 
Before him Do ri pours all his floods : 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; 
The lightnings flash frc^m pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk- Alloway seeui'd in a bleeze , 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippetmy, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil. — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle* 
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd. 
She ventured forward on the light 



And, 



! Ta 



in saw ii 



n unco sight ! 



Warlocks and witches in a dance _ 

Nae cotillion hrent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reehtf 

Put life and mettle in their heels, 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o* beast ; 

A towzie tyke, Wack, grim, and large. 

To gie them music was his charge : 

He screw'd his pipes and gart them skirls 

Til) roof and rafters a' did dirl- — 



54 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Coftins stood round like open presses, 
That shdvv'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa sjjan-Iang, wee, unchristen'd bau'us : 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 
Five scymitars wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,. 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu* 

A.S Tarnmie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, 
The n)irth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had they been queans 
A' plump an* strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw- white seventeen hunder linen ' 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That auce were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies ! 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie. 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Currick shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat; - 
And shook baith meikh; corn and bear, 
And kept the country side in fear), 
Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude though sorely scanty, 
It WHS her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi* twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But nere my muse her w ng maun cour ; 
S''! flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how 7am stood, like ane bewitch *d, 
A.nd thought his very een enrich 'd • 



Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg*d fu* fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and 
Till first ae caper, syne anither. 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " W^eel done, Cutty-sara 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 



As bees bizz out wi* angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail their byke j 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market crowd, 
When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud \ 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' nionje an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn' Ah, Tarn! thou '11 get thy fain* 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ; 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane * of the brig , 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tale she had to shake ' 
For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle , 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle— 
Ae spring l)rought aff" her roaster hale. 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read) 
Ilk man and mothei 's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
Or cutty-sarks lun in your mind, 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED 
HARE LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! ciirse on thy barb'rous ai%. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh. 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 



* It is a vvell known fact, that witches, or any evC 
spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any far- 
ther than the middle of the next running stream, — It 
may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted 
traveller, that when he falls in with bugles, whatever 
danger may be in his going forward, there is mucjl 
more hazard in turning back. 



POEMS. 



5d 



No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains, 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
rest, 

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE 
OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- 
BURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green. 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace, 
Retreats to Drybuigh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

liy Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty feed: 

While maniac Win«r rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows. 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar. 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

feo long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast wou ! 
While Scotia, with exulting tear. 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



EPITAPHS. 



ON A CELEBRATED RL'LING 
ELDER. 

Here souter John in death does 4eep; 

To hell, if lie's gane thither, 
Batan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

HeU haud it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O Death, its my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! ^ 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hicjacet wee Johnny. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, 
That death has murder'd Johnny ! 

An' here his body lies fu' low— 
For saul, he ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUTHOR S FATHER 

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 
The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe j 

" For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue't 
side."* 



FOR R. A. Esq. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd nancfi 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G. H. Esq. 

The poor man weeps — here G n 

Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such its he, where'er he be, 
May I be saved or i d ! 



sleeps, 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snooi. 

Let him diaw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 
WTio, noteless, steals the crowds among. 



• Goldsmith. 



56 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Tliat weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 

Oat, witli a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
HtTe pause — and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below. 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow. 

And softer Jlame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 
In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-controly 
Is wisdom's root. 



ON THE LATE 

CAPTAIN GROSE'S 

PEREGRINATIONS THRO-UGH SCOTLAND, COL- 
LECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOxrl, 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Rlaidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in »' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you, taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark wee! — 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk, deserted by its riggin. 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's ! colleaguin' 

At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor. 
And you deep -read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches j 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight bitches. 

It*3 tauid he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 



Bat now he's quat the «purt1e blade, 

And dog-skin wtUt^ 

And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick nackets : 
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,* 
Wad had the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid : 
And parritch pats, and auld saut-backelHi 
Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ? 
That which distinguisheil the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Eudor, 

Weel shod wi' brais. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu* gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The knife that uicket Abel's craig. 

He'll prove you ftilly. 
It was a faulding joctelcg, 

Or lang-kail guUie.— 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi* him , 
And port, O port 1 Shine thou a wee. 

And then ye'll see him 1 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose i — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shame fa* thee I 



* Vide his Antiqiiities of Scotland. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

a Vr.RY VOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLANl 
leaf OF A BOOK, PRESENTED iO HE* Bt 
THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 

Blooming on thy early May, 

Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r j 

Never Boreas' hoary path, 

Never Eurus* pois'nous breath. 

Never baleful stellar lights. 

Taint thee with untimely blights ! 

Never, never reptile thief 

Riot on thy virgin leaf! 

Nor even Sol too fiercely view 

Thy bosom blushing still with dew • 

M'ay'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 



* Vide his treatise on Ancient Arraour and Weapo(i» 



POEMS. 6*? 


Till some ev'ning sober, calm, 


Dry-withering, waste my foanaing sireamii 


Dropping dews, and oreathiog balm. 


And drink my crystal tide. 


While all around the woodland rings, 




And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings; 


The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts, 


Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 


That thro' my waters play, 


Shed thy dying honours round, 


If, in their random, wanton spouts, 


And resign to parent earth 


They near the margin stray ; 


The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 


If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 




I'm scorching up so shallow. 




They're left the whitening stanes amang. 






In gasping death to wallow. 


ON RF.ADING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF 






Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, 


JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. 


As poet B came by. 




That, to a bard I should be seen, 


BEOTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR 


Wi' half my channel dry : 


FRIEND OF THE AUTHOr's. 


A panegyric rh^nie, I ween, 




Even as I was he shor'd me : 


Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 


But had I in my glory been, 


And rueful thy alarms : 


He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 


Death tears the brother of her love 




From Isabella's arms. 


Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 




In twisting strength I rin ; 


Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 


There, high my boiling torrent smokeSj 


The morning rose may blow ; 


Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 


But, cold successive noontide blasts 


Enjoying large each spring and well 


May lay its beauties low. 


As nature gave them me, 




I am, although I say't mysel, 


Fair on Isabella's morn 


Worth gaun a mile to see. 


The sun propitious smil'd; 




But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 


Would then my noble master please 


Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 


To grant my highest wishes, 




He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees 


Fate oft tears the bosom chords 


And bonnie spreading bushes ; 


That nature finest strung : 


Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 


So Isabella's heart was form'd. 


You'll wander on my banks, 


And so that heart was rung. 


And listen mony a grateful bird 




Return you tuneful thanks. 


Dread Omnipotence, alone, 




Can heal the wound he gave ; • 


The sober laverock, warbling wild, • 


Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 


Shall to the skies aspire ; 


To scenes beyond the grave. 


The gowdspink, music's gayest child. 




Shall sweetly join the choir : 


Virtuous blossoms there shall blow. 


The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear. 


And fear no withering blast ; 


The mavis wild and mellow ; 


There Isabella's spotless worth 


The robin pensive autumn cheer. 


Shall haijpy be at last. 


In all her locks of yellow. 




This too, a covert shall ensure. 




To shield them from the storm ; 


THE HUMBLE PETITION OF 


And coward maukin sleep secure, 


BKUAR-WAT£R.» 


Low in her grassy form. 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat. 


TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 


To weave his crown of flowers ; 




Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat, 


Mv Lord, I know your noble ear 


From prone descending showers. 


Woe ne'er a>sails in vain ; 




Embolden'd thus, I Beg you'll hear ' 

Your humble slave complain, 
riow saucy Phtebus' scorching beams, 


And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 


Shall meet the loving pair. 


Despising worlds with all their wealth. 


In flaming summer-pride, 


As empty idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their cbarmi 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 




• Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque 
and l>eautiful ; but their eflect is much impaired by the 


want of trees and shrubs. 


To screen the dear embrace. 


J 


2 



kS 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Here, haply too> at vernal dawn. 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, grey ; 
Dr, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild chequering through the trees. 
Rave to my dirkly dashing stream. 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool. 

Their shadows' watery bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliifs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope. 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's faithest ken, 

To social-flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses !" 



In these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays ; 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on naiure you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful ^pend. 

Or, if man's superior might. 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn : 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave. 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



ON SCARING SOME WATER. 
FOWL, 

IN LOCH-TURIT ; 

/». WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF 
OCHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your watery haunt forsake? 
Tell me, fellow-oreatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billoiv's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow. 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, t« whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitj 'ng heav'n, 
Glorious in his heart humane — 
nd creatures for his pleasure slain. 



.VRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

JVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUE 
OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. 
These noj-thern scenes with weary feet I trace * 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view— 
The meeting clifs each deep-sunk glen divides. 
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong tho 

hills. 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
The palace rising on his verdant side, 
The lawns wood-fringed in Natures native taste; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ! 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream 
The village, glittering in the moontide beam- 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods — 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre. 
And look through nature with ci eative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 

! Misfortune'? lighten'd steps might wander 

I wild ; 

And disappointment, in *hese lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her hitter rankling wounds 
Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ware 

stretch her scan, 
And injur 'd worth forget avd nardon Bitn. 



POEMS. 
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BV THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR 
LOCH-NESS. 



59 



Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
riie roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; 
Till full he (lashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream 
resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prrne down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
scends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mist& and ceaseless 

showers, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers. 
Stil. tnro toe gap the struggling river toils. 
And still below, the horrid caldron boils — 



ON THE BIHTH OF A 

POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

aOKH IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

SwEKT Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

Ard ward o' mony a prayer. 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree. 

Should shield thee frae the stornt, 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw. 
Protect thee frae the driving shower^ 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

Maj He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant. 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair ou the summer morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gaci 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 



THE WHISTLE 

A BALLAD. 



As t!ie authentin prose history of the Whistle is tn 
rious, 1 shall here give it. — In the train of Anne of 
Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our Jamet 
the sixth, there came over also a Danisli gentleman of 
gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless 
champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whist.e 
whiih at the commencement of the orgi( s he laid on 
the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every 
body else being disabled by the jiotency of the bottle, 
was to carry oft' the Whistle as a trophy of victory. 
The Dane produced credentials of his vi -tories svithout 
a sinj,'le defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stock- 
holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty 
courts in Germany; and challenged the Scots Baccha- 
nalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else 
of acknowledging their inferiority. After many over- 
throws on the part of the Scots, the Dane was eneoun. 
tered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwe'.ton, ancestor of 
tli« present worthy baronet of that name; who, after 
three days and three nights' liard contest, left the 
Scandinavian under the table. 

And bleiv on the Whittle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, af« 
terwards lost the Whistle to Waller Riddel, of Glen, 
riddel, who had married a sister of Sir Wa-'pr's. — Or 
Friday, the 16th of October 1790, at Friars-Carse, the 
Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the 
ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel- 
ton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenruidel, lifteai de- 
scendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who 
won the Whistle, and in whose family it had conti- 
nued ; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, 
likewise descended of the great Sir Ro*V2rt; which ^ast 
gentleman carried off the hard- won honours of tne field. 



I SING of a Whistle, a Whistl'p of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the yride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 

king. 
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shaL 

ring. 

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his 

hall.— 
•' This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland 

get o'er. 
And drink them to hell. Sir ' or ne'er see ma 



Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell 
What champions ventur'd, what champions 

fell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still. 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and tl« 

Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea. 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than Le. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy hai 
gain'd; 
V/hich now in his house has for ages remain'd , 



• See Ossian' Caricthura. 



60 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear 

of flaw ; 
Craigdanoch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

law ; 
\nd trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
ind gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth 
as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 
man. 

*♦ By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel 

replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* 
And bun.per his horn with him twenty times 

o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- 
tend. 

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 
friend. 

Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the 
field, 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So rioted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a gweet lovely 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had 
been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply. 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so 

set, 
And the bands grew tie tighter the more they 

were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vowed that to leave them he was quite 

forlorn. 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the 
night. 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 



Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and 
sage. 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-rulinr Eider to wallow in wine I 
He left the i^ul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the 
end ; 

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 
tend ? 

Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ; 

So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell th« 
knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet iri 
drink : — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creatioB 

shall sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come— one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
lime ! 

" Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom 
with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of 

day !" 



• See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET, f 



AULD NEEBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor^ 
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter j 
Tho' 1 maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak so fair : 
For my puir, silly, rhymm' clatter. 

Some less maun sair 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tiuid the Muse ye hae negleckit j 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit 

Until ye fyke j 
Sic bans as you sud ne'er be faikit. 

Be hain't wha like. 



t This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, pufc 
lished at Kilmarnock, 1 . 89, and has ncit before appeal 
ed in our author's printed poems. 



POEMS. 



61 



/^frt me, 'm on Parnassus brink, 

Rivin' t\ i words to gar them clink ; 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' 'Irink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

'h a' the thoughtless sons o' m»n, 
("^onimen' me to the bardie clai.; 
Except It be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They over think. 

Sit thought, nae view, nae scheme of livia' ; 
Nat cares to gie us joy or grievin' : 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in. 

An' while ought's ther3, 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae main 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, araaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-fiel*, at wark or leisure. 

The Muse, poor hi2aie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae poor, 
Na, even tho' limpin* wi' the spavie 

Frae door tae door. 



ON MY EARLY DAYS. 
I. 

I MIND it weel in early date. 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn. 
Or haud a yokin o' the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn — 
Wh?n first amang the yellow com 

A man reckon'd was. 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass- 
Still shearing, and clearing 
The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

II. 
E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave ray breast, 
Th? I tor poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Somr usefu' plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang, at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading ^d« 

Amang the bearderf bear. 



I tiirn'd tiie weedcr oiips aside, 
An' spared the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praisei. 

III. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an* rang, 

Wild floated in my brain : 
'Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She lous'd the forming strain ♦. 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean. 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky e*en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ' 
I filed, inspired. 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak.* 



ON THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR 

The lamp of day, witb ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave, 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 
air. 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by eacb cliff and dell. 
Once the loved haunts of Scotia's roya 
train ; f 
Or mused where limpid streams once hallowM 
well,t 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. § 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 
rocks, 
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry 
sky. 
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye* 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately forn).. 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

*Twas Caledonia's trophied shield i view'd ; 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 



« The reader will find some explanst' |D of \Mt 
poem in p. viii. 

t The King's Park at Holyrood-hou«e. 
i SL Anthony's Well. 
I St. Anthony's ChapeL 



62 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war, 

Reclined that banner, erst in fields iinfurl'd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And braved the mighty monarchs of the 
world. — 

•* My patriot son fills an untinmely grave !" 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 
*' Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
save, 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
pride ! 

* A weeping country joins a widow's tear. 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 

The drooping art* around their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has lai^ the guardian low. — 

♦* My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthJess 
name! 

No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue. 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares. 
Thro* future times to make his virtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping 
blast. 



WRITTEN 

ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, 
PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN 
MARRIED.* 

(Dnce rondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. — 

A.nd when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, 

Who distant burns' in flaming torrid climes, 
Cj haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS 



A CANTATA. 



HECITATIVO. 



Whzs lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 

i)r wavering like the Bauckie-bird,f 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 



The girl mentioned in the letter to Dr. Moore. 
i The old Scotcl name for the 3at. 



When hailstanes d.ive wi' bitter skyte. 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 
In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core, 
O* randie, gangrel bodies. 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sangf i 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The very girdle rang. 

First, niest the fire, in auld red rag«, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his ajm, 
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm- 
She blinket on her sodger : 
An' aye he gies the tousie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss. 
While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an a'mous dish. 
Ilk smack did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip. 

Then staggering and swaggering 

He roar'd this ditty up — - 

AIK. 

Tune-~* Soldier's Joy. 

I. 

I AM a son of Mars who have been in mMSf 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come j 
This here was for a wench, and that other in c 

trench. 
When welcoming the French at the sound oi 

the drum. 

Lai de dandle, &c. 

U. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of 

Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd. 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

III. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries. 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot tc 

head me, 
rd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

IV. 

And now tho* I must beg with a wooden ana 

and leg. 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over va^ bun 



POEMS. 



63 



Tin at happy with rey wallet, my nottle and 

my callet, 
4< when I usM in scarlet to follow a drum. 
Lai de daud.e, &c. 

V. 

Whit tho with hoary locks, I must stand the 

Winter shocks, 
beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 

home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
I tould meet a trjop of hell, at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar- 

AIR. 

Tuni-~" Soldier Laddie." 

t ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

n 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy, 
Iransported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

in. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the '/urch, 
The sword I forsook for rtie sake of the church, 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body, 
Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

IV. 

Pull goon I g\ew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoou to the fife I was 

ready, 
\ askefi no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, 8sc. 



But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
TiJl I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; 



His rag regimental they flutter'd so gaudy. 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, Sec. 

VI. 

And now I have liv'a — I know not how long. 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glast 

.steady. 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c 

RECItATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling 
For monie a pursie she had hooked. 
And had in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa* the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandtnan, 



Tune-^** O an* ye were dead, Gudenua.* 

I. 
A HIGHLAND lad my love was born, 
The Lalland laws he held in scorn j 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman i 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman I 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John HighlandmaOt 

11. 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 
An' gude claymore down by his side. 
The ladies hearts he did trepan. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

in. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
An' liv'd like lords and ladiei gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared none, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

IV. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea. 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing hty, &c. 

V. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the laatj 
And bound ^im in a dungeon fast ; 



C4 



BURNS WORKS. 



My surse upon them every one,, 
They've hang'd my braw John Higland 
Sing, hey, 8cc. 

VI. 

And now a widow, T must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha, us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle> 

Her strappin huib and gausy middle 

He reach'd nae higher, 
^lad hol'd his heartie I'ke a riddle. 

An' blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e*e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an Arioso key. 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' Allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 



AIR. 

J^ng—" WhistU ovrre the lave o't" 

I. 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
An* go wi me to be my dear. 
An' then your every e.are and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 



I am a fiddler to my trade, 
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd. 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

n. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
An' O ! sae nicely 's we will fare; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

HI. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, 
An' sun oursels about the dyke. 
An' at our leisure, when we Ake, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

IV. 
Bat bless me wi* your heaven o' charm% 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, an a sick harms. 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am. &c 



RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck % sturdy Caiffil; 

As weei as poor Gutsyraper; 
He taks the tiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing worthy 

To speet him like a pliver. 
Unless he would from that time forth^ 

Relinquish her for ever, 

Wi' ghastly e*e, poor tweedle dee 

Upon his hunkers bendod, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu* face» 

And sae the quarrel endi'd. 
But though his littb heart did gi'ieve, 

WTien round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign 'd to snirtle in his sleeve. 

When thus the caird address'd h»r 

AIR. 

Clout the Caldron." 



I. 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my Citation ; 
I've traveli'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation. 
I've ta'eu the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search'd, when off I march^ 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, %n>, 

II. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a his noise an' caprin'. 
An' tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget an' the apron. 
An' by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

An* by that dear Keilbagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant. 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

An' by thart; stowp, tw. 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair 

lu his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi* love o'ercome eae sair, 

An' partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that niglkti 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore an aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's * craft;, 

Tho' limping with the spavie. 



• A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favouii> 
ite with Poosie-Nancie's clubs. 

* Homer is allowed to be the oldest balled-singer oB 
reeoid. 



1 




65 


•a hirplM up, and 1 ip lilfe daft, 


They toom'd their pocks, an* pawn'd tl^sLr duds, 


An' shor'd them Daiutie Davie 


They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 


boot that night 


To quench txieir lowan drouth. 


He was a care-defying blade 


Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 


As ever Bacchus listed, 


The poet did request, 


Though Fortune sair upon him laid, 


To loose his pack an' wale a sang. 


His heart she ever niiss'd it. 


A ballad o' the best : 


He had no wish but — to be glad, 


He rising, rejoicing, 


Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 


Between hia twa Deborahg, 


He hated nought but — to be sad, 


Looks round him, an' found them 


And thus the Muse suggested, 


Impatient for the chorus. 


His sang that night 






AIR. 


AIR. 






Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your OlaMM. 


Tune-" For «' that, an' af that" 


1 


I. 


1 

See ! the smoking bowl before us. 


I AM a bard of no regard, 


Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 


Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that ; 


Round and round take up the chorus, 


But Homer-like, the glowran byke. 


And in raptures let us sing. 


Frae town to town I draw that. 




CHORUS. 


CHORUS. 






A fig for those by law protected' 


For a' that, an' a that ; 


Liberty's a glorious feast ! 


An' twice as meikle's a' that ; 


Courts for cowards were erected, 


I've lost but ane, I've twa behin*, 


Churches built to please the priest 


I've wife enough for a' that 


n. 


II. 


What is title ? what is treasure 7 


I never drank the Muse's stank. 


What is reputation's care ? 


Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 


If we lead a life of pleasure, 


But there it streams, and richly reams, 


'Tis no matter how or where ! 


My Helicon I ca' that. 


A fig, &c. 


For a' that, &c. 


III. 


III. 


With the ready trick and fable. 


Great love I bear to a' the fair, 


Round we wander all the day ; 


Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 


And at night, in barn or stable. 


But lordly will, I hold it still 


Hug our doxies on the hay. 


A mortal sin to thraw that. 


A fig, &c. 


For a' that, &c. 


IV. • 


IV. 


Does the train-attended carriage 


In raptures sweet, this hour we meet 


Through the country lighter rove ? 


Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; 


Does the sol)er bed of marriage 


But for how lang t\vejlie maj stangy 


Witness brighter scenes of love ? 


Let inclination law that. 


A fig, &c. , 


For a* that, &c 


V. 


V. 


Life is all a variorum, 


Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 


We rpgard not how it eoes : 


They've ta'en me in, an' a* that ; 


Let tnera cant anout aecorum 


But clear your decks, and here's the sex ! 


Who have characters to lose. 


I like the jads for a* that 


A fig, &c. 


" For a' that, an' a' that 


VL 


• An* twice as meikle's a' that ; 


Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets * 


My dearest bluid, to do them guid. 


Here's to all the wandering train ! 


They're welcome till't for a' that 


Here's our ragged brats and callets 1 




One and all cry out Amen ! 


RECITATIVa 






A fig for those by law protected ! 


So rang the bard — and Nansie's wa*8 


Libei ty's a glorious feast ! 


Shook with a thunder of applause, 


Courts foi cowards were erected, 


Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 


Churches built to please the p'-^oi<t. 


1 



db BURNS' WORKS 

THE KIRK'S ALARM : * 



A SATIRE. 

f)RTHOi)OX, orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
fhere's a heretic blast has been blawu in the 
wast, 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac, f Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a 
rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- 
clare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob \ is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, § D'rymple mild, tho' your 

heart's like a child, 

And your life like the new driven snaw, 

V^et that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

ye, 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Rumble John,^ Rumble John, mount the«teps 
wi' a groan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then liif^ out your ladl^^, deal brimstone like 
adle, 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, |j Simper James, leave the fair 
Killie dames, 
There's a holier chace in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon 
lead, 
For puppies like you there's bat few. 

Siuget Sawney,** Singet Sawney, are ye herd- 
ing the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Aiild,-j-f Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the 

death, 
And if ye canna bite ye may bark. 



Davie Bluster,* Davie Bluster, if fcr a aaiol 
ye do muster. 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 
Yet to worth lets be just, royal blood ye might 
boast. 
If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose,f Jamie" Goose, ye ha'e made but 
toom roose, 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But tlie Doctor's your mark, for the L— «d'» 
haly ark ; 
He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie, | Poet Willie, gie the Doctor R 
volley, 

Wi' your liberty's ch:iin and your wit; 
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 

Andro Gouk, ^ Andro Gouk, ye may slander 

the book. 

And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and 

wig. 

And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie, || Barr Steenie, what mean ye? 
what mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may ha'e some ))rctence to liavins and sense, 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side,** Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock 
pride. 
Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes wiB 
allow, 
And your friends they dare grant you nae 
mair. 

Muirland Jock,ff jMuiriancl jock, wnen lue 
L — d makes a rock 

To crush Conunon Sense for her sins. 
If ill manners were wit, tliere's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will, \\ Holy Will, there was wit i' youjf 
skull, 
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a 
saint, 
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'rituft] 
guns. 
Ammunition ye never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powthet 
enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 



• This poem was written a short (Jme after the pub- 
ication of Mr. M'Gill s Essay. 

4 M,. M« u. I R 1 A n. 

}Dr. D c. % Mr. R 11, 
Mr. M' y. ** Mr. M y. 

t1 Mr. A d. 



• Mr. G- 

I Mr. P- 

II Mr. S- 
tt Mr. S. 



, O 

s, A-r. 



f Mr. Y g, C k. 

U Dr. A. M II. 

ii An E r w M — e- 



POEMS. 



Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi* ycur priest-skelp- 
ing turns, 

Why dest'jt ye your luld native shire ; 
ITour muse is a gipsie, t'en tho' she were tip'^ie, 
She could ca' us iiae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS.* 

O A ye pious godly flocks, 
Wee! fed on j>asture's orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tyket, 
Or whi will tent the wait's and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, 
These five-and-twenty simmers past, 

O ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atween themsel. 

O, M y, man, and worthy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

Au' think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I ha'e min'. 

O, Sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit, 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But bj- the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sa« hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid. 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale, 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 
•Or nobly fling the gospel club, 



And new-li^ht herds could nicely drub. 
Or pay their skin; 

Could shake them o'er the burning dub. 
Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en. 
While new-light herds wi' laughin' spice, 

Say neither's lieiw* ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n, deep, and P- s, shaul* 

But chiefly thou, apostle A — d 

We trust m thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that we get. 
But conies frae 'mang that cursed set, 

J winna name, 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D e has been lang our fae, 

M' 11 has wraught us nieikle wae. 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e, 

And baith the S— — « 
That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief. 

We thought aye death wad bring relief. 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'U soundly bufl"our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats araang oursel, 

There S — h for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin*. 

O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cow the lairds. 
And get the brutes the power themsels. 

To choose their herdfl 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 

And learning in a woody dance, 

And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair^ 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to Frauce : 

Let him bark there. 



• This piece was among the first of our Author's pro- 
iucttons which he submitted to the public; and was 
occasioned by a dispute between two dergymen, near 
Kilmarnock. 



Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M' ll's close nervous excellence. 



68 



BURNS WORKS. 



IM'Q — e's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid M* -h, 

W\ S — th, wha ihro' the heart can glance, 
May a' pack aff. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who mu«t to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788 



For lords or kings I dinna mourn. 
E'en let them die — for that they're born ! 
But, oh, prodigious to reflect, 
A Towrnont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft ns ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint ahead. 
An' my auld teethloss Bawtie's dead ; 
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidy devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', 
But better stufi^ ne'er claw'd a midden ! 

Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; 
For Eighty-eiyht he wish'd you weel, 
An' gied yoa a' baith gear an* meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses dight your een. 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' : 
In Eighty-eiyht, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep. 
How dowff an' dowie now they creep : 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, 
For Embro* wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn. 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pi ay tak' care. 
Thou now has got thv daddy's chair, 



Nae hand-cuff*d, mizzTd, haff-sTvackl*d Regei^ 
But, like himsel', a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 
As meikle better as you can. 
January 1, 1789. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INK A» 
CARRON. 

We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise. 
But only, lest we gang to bell, 

It may be nae surprise : 
But when we tirl'd at your door, 

Your porter dought na hear us ; 
Sae may, should we to hell's yetts comef 

Your billy Satan sair us ! 



LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, 

WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J N R K N 

AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMME- 
DIATELY AFTER THE POEt's DEATH. 

He who of R — k — n sang, lies stiff and dead, 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; 
Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 



At a meeting of the Dumfries-shtrb Vot.unteerSj 
held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's 
victory, April I2th 1782, Burns was called upon 
for a Song, instead of which he delivered the follow, 
ing Lines: 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 

we lost ; — 
That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav*n ! that we 

found. 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes 

round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the Kmgi 
Whoe'er would betray him on high may he swing 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd. 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny daran'd ; 
And virho would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he Lis firat trial 



POEMS. 



69 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

rHt^KEST night o'eihangs my dwellicg ! 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. 

Still surround ray lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing. 

Busy haunts of base mankind, 
Western breezes, softly blowing, 

Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 

Wrongs injurious to redress, 
Honour's war we strongly waged, 

But the heavens deny'd success. 

Kuin's wheel has driven o'er us, 

Not a hope that dare attend, 
The wide world is all before us — 

But a world without a friend !• 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvaader hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part, — but by these precious drops. 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



A VISION. 



As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa* -flower scents the dewy air, 
Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still. 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant echoing glens reply. 



The stream adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,* 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa'». 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn d mine eye8,f 
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to we 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as miustrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue Iwen o' stane, 

His darin look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain. 
The sacred posie — Liberty ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flc w. 

Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi* joy his former day, 

He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I wiaua ventur't in my rhymes.^ 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 

TO 

MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BAKd's PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected, 

A name, which to love was the mark of a tru» 
heart, 
But now 'tis despised and neglected : 



• Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the follow- 
ers of the young Clievalier, and is supposed to be lying 
eoncealed in snm» cave of the Highlands, after the 
battle of Cuiloden This song was written before the 
y»ar 1 788 



* fariation. To join yon river on the Strath. 

t Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld. 
Her horn the pale-faced Cyntliia rear'd; 
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, 
A stern and stalwart ghaist appoarM. 

t This poem, an imperfect copy of which was print 
ed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poefi 
MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely 
described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed 
to be musing l)y night on the banks of the river Clu- 
den, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, founded in 
the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcom IV oi 
whose present situation the reader may find some ac- 
count in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Anti- 
quities ' f that division of the island. Such a time and 
sueh a place are well fitted for holding converse with 
aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, 
yet it may be presume d that no reader ot taste, what- 



ever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omit- 

ted. Our poet's prudence supnr 

berty, perhaps fortunately for his repjtation. It may 



be questioned whether, even in the resources of hi« 
genius, a strain of poetry could ht e been found wor- 
thy of the grandeur anrf sclemiu'^" of this pre ation 



70 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Tho' something Jike moisture conglobes in my 
eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
sigh, 
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son. 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily 
join, 
The Queen and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of 
mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by the country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter. 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

/ send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scaice worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 
eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night » 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 

Your course to the latest is bright. 

My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor- 
ner on me, and I have not got again into her 
good graces. Do me the justice to believe me 
sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many 
civilities you have honoured me with since I 
came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I 
have the honour to be. 

Revered Sir, 
Your obliged and very humble Servant, 
R. BURNS. 
Er,iNBuaGH, 1787. 



THE FOLLOWING POEM 

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD 

SEKT HIM A NEWSFAPER, AND OFFERED 

TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind sir, I've read your paper through, 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wmnted ? 
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted 



To ken what French mistjtief was brewin , 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin* ; 

That vile doup skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the coUieshankie works 

Atween the Russian and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt. 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt ! 

If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wna had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades wese hkigia 

How libbet Italy was singin ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were saying or takin ought amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame. 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'e? i iBB ' 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Biirke the plea was cookin. 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed, 

Or if bare a — yet weie taxed ; 

The news o' princes, duk^-s, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls , 

If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails. 

Or if he was growin oughtlins douser, 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And, but for you, I might despair'd of. 

So gratefu', back your news I send you, 

And pray, a' guid things may attend you I 

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



POEM. 

ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Haii. Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! 

In chase o' thee, what cro\Vds hae swerved 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 

*Mang heaps o' clavers , 
And och ! o*er aft thy joes hae starved, 

'Mid a* thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
While Itwd the trump's heroic clang. 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage j 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage"* 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flara« 



POEMS. 



■?1 



But thetf, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats. Maro's catches ; 
Squire Poi^e but busks his «kirihu patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit an lear. 

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 

Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish call an ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel so clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where iPhilomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays. 
Where bonnie lassies bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love. 
That charm that can the strongest quell. 

The sternest move. 



SKETCH. 

NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain. 

To run the twelvemonths' length again : 

1 see the old bald-pated fellow. 

With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 

Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 

To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir. 

In vain assail him with their prayer. 

Deaf as my friend he sees them press. 

Nor makes the hour one moment lesa. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds. 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,* 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) ; 



* This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila 
from the Viiion. see page 69. 



From housewife cares ,i n..nuri^ Dor ow — ■ 
— That grandchild's cap will do to-iiionov- 
And join with me a inoruHzmg, 
This day's propitious to he wise in. 
First, what did yesternight deliver ; 
•' Another year is gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 
" The passing moment's all we rest on !" 
Rest Dn — for what ! What do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year? 
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore. 
Add to our date one uiinute more ? 
A few days may — a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then, is it wise to damp mr bliss ! 
Yes, all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future-life in worlds unknowt. 
Must take its hue from this alone : 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woeful night— 
Since then, my honour'd first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends : 
Let us th' important now employ. 
And live as those who never die. 
Tho' you, with days and honours crown*<i. 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight pale envy to convulse) 
Others now claim your chief regard— 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, 

ON THE LATE 

MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE,* 

A UTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL Hllk 
TORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAli 
AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

To Crochallan came 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving 

night, 
Hia uncombed grizzly locks wild - staring, 

thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, ua> 

match'd ; 
Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude. 
His heart was warm, benevolent and good. 



• Mr. Smellie, and our poet, were both memberg oi 
» club in Edinburgh, under the name of Crochallav 
Fencibles. 



72 



BURNS' WORKS. 



POEllCAL INSCRIPTION 

FOR 

AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, 

AT KERROUCHTRY, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON- 
WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; 

Prepared power's proudest frown to bravCf 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



SONNET, 



THE DEATH OF MR. RIDDEL. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more. 
Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : 
Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I can- 
not bear ; 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild- 
est roar. 

How can ve please, ye flowers, with all your 
dies . 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain pours round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies.* 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe. 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier ; 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his ' narrow house' for ever darkly low 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others gi-eet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



MONODY 



A LADY FAIMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge late- 
ly glisten'd ; 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
tired, 

How dull is that ear which to flattery so 
listened. 



• Robert Riddel, Eaq. of Friar's Carse, a very wor. 
thy character, and one to whom our bard thought 
bimself uJQd«r many obligations. 



If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 

From friendship and dearest aflfectioa rt 
moved j 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unloved 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not 
tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true. 

And flowers let us cuU for Eliza's ccd bier. 

We'll search through the garden for each silly 
flower. 
We'll roam through the forest for each idl« 
weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 

For none e'er approach'd her but rued th« 
rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 

lay; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot !yre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Hers lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. 
What once was a butterfly gay iu life*! 
beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
Want only of goodness deuied her esteem. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, 
CARRIAGES, &C. TO EACH FARMER, ORDER- 
ING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS 
HORSES, SERVANTS, WHEEL-CARRIAGES, &C, 
AND WHETHER HE WAS A MARRIED MAM 
OR A BACHELOR, AND WHAT CHILORJKM 
THET HAD. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 

I send you here a faithfu' Jist, 

My horses, servants, carts and graith, 

To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattie, 

I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle. 

As ever drew before a pettle. 

My hand-afore, * a guid auld has been, 

And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; 

My hand-a-hin,\ a guid brown filly, 

Wha aft has borne me safe frae Kiliie ; \ 



• The fore-horse on the left.hand, in the piouglb 
f The hindmost on the left-hand, in the plough. 
i Kilraainock. 



POEMS. 



73 



4nd your auld borough mony a time, 
In dap when riding was nae crime : 
fdy fur-a-hin,* a guid, grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was traced : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastifc. 
For-hy a cowte, of cowtes the wule, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spared to be a beast, 
He'L draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckiy new. 
An auld wheel-baiTOW, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld niither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
4 gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc bauds the nowt in fother. 
{ rule their, as I ought, discreetly, 
ind often abour them completely, 
Vnd aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
i on the questions tairge them tightly, 
*Till, faith ; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho* scarcely langer than my leg) 
He'll screed you aff effectual calling. 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
Foi weans I'm mair than vveel contented. 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted : 
My sousie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daililie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But hei, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her alrcaoy, 
And if ye tix her or her mither. 
By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 

Nae kind of license out I'm taking. 

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle. 

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 

I've stui-ly stumps, the Lord be thankit ! 

And a' uiy gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date as under notet ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

ROBERT BURNS. 



* The bindnvMt on the right-hand, in the plough. 



IMPROMPTU, 



S BIKTH-DAY, 



4th November, 1793. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd $ 
*' What have I done of all the year. 
To bear this hated doom severe f 
My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags^ dreary, slovr : 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil ; 
To counterbalance all this evil ; 
Give me, and I've no more to say. 
Give me Maria's natal day ! 
That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 
Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot match nu 
".'Tis done !" says Jove ; so ends my story, 
And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee ; 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or w^ere 1 "uonarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queea 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 



MISS JESSY L- 



OF DUMFRIES; 



WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED 1 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and sptitless fame, 
And wakeful caution, still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
I All blameless joys on earth we find, 
I And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and leward , 
So prays thy faithful friond, the bard. 



u 



BURNS* WORKS. 



SONNET, 

JtTRITTEN ON CHE ?,5tH JANUARY, 1793 THE 
BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A 
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. 

BiNG on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign. 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed broW. 

So in lone poverty's dominion drear. 

Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee. Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 
skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with 
thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, 

TO MR. S Ej 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAV- 
ING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COM- 
PANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17th 
DECEMBER, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cookery the first in the nation ; 

Who is pioof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. S—E. 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OP PORTER. 

O HAD the malt thy strength of mind^ 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S — e were fit. 

'BAU8ALEM TA.VEKN, Dumfries. 



POEM, 

AJJDRKSSED TO MR. MITCH tLL, COLLECTOR OF 
EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil, 

V/i' a' his witches 
4re at it, skelpiu' ! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 



I, modestly, fu' fain wad nint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it; 
If wi' the hizzie down ye send it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood duated 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hail design, 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've beard this while how I've been lickel 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loon ! he gat nie by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o*t. 
And by that life I'm prtimised mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll tak' a care o't 

A ten tier way : 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. 

For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A gentleman WHOM HE HAD 
OFFENDED. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) 

Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Wine was tli' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTBS, 
DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honoured colonel, deep 1 feel 

Your interest in the poet's weal ; 

i Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassu*, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion gla 



O what a canty world were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it J 

And fortune, favour, worth, and merit, 

As they desei've ; 
(And aye a' rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha would sta'^e") 



POEMS. 



U 



Dame life, tho* fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
.\ye wavering like the willow wicker, 

*Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst oarraagnole, auld ^atan, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi* felon ire ; 
Syne, whip .' his tail ye' II ne'er cast saut on, 

He's aflf like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair. 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines anii bonnie lasses rare. 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare 

O hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, 
And aft as cliance he comes thee nigh. 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 

And like a sheep-liead on a tangs, 

Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs ' 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel 

But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen ; 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 

My curse upon your venom *d stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mouy a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers bum, or ague freezes. 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ; 
I throw the wee stools o'er the meikle, 
As round the fire the giglet<» keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 



O' a* the numVous Kjman dools, 
III har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stooln. 
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools. 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o* knaves or fash o' fools. 

Thou bear'st the grea 

Where'er that place be, priests ca' hell. 
Whence a* the tones o* mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu* raw. 
Thou, TooTH-ACHE, surely bear'st the bell, 

Amang them a* ! 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes o* discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ;— 
Gie a* the faes o' Scotland's weel 

A towmond's Tooth- Ach« 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq 

OF FINTRY, 
ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns. 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still deaser as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Tl^n roll to me, along your wandering sphere^ 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest. 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER 

O Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For ev'ry creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of nature w;'de. 

For all thy goodness lent : 



76 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And if it please tliee, heavenly guide, 
May never worse be sent ; 

But ;vhether granted, or denied, 
Lord bless us with content ! 
Amen I 



TO MT DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP, 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress, with horrors arming. 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate od the clay. 



Hear the wood-lark charm ths 
Telling o'er his little joys : 

Hapless bird! a prey the suies 
To each pirate of the skies. 



Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feeHngs can bestow ; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasiura, 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



A VERSE, 



COMPOSED AND REPE-itEa BY BURNS, TO TH» 
MASTSR OF TUE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVI 
AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERK H> 
HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er ; 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In heaven itself, I'll ask no more. 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



ADDITIONAL PIECES OF POETRY, 

From the Reliques, Published in 180S, 

BY MR. CROMEK. 

The contributions were poured so copiously upon Dr. Currie that selection became a duty, and tK. 
put aside several interesting pieces both in prose and verse, which would have done honour tc 
the Poet s memory : But besides these there were other pieces extant, which did not come 
under the Doctor's notice: All of them, both of the rejected and discovered description, have 
since been collected and published by Mr. Cromek, whose personal devotion to the Poet, and 
generally to the poetry of his country, rendered him a most assiduous collector. The additional 
pieces of poetry so collected and published by Cromek, are given here. The additional song* 
and correspondence, taken from the Reliques and his more recent publication, " Select Scot< 
tish Songs," will each appear in the proper place.] 



ELEGY 

ON 

MR. WILLIAM CREECH, 

BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 
I. 

AuLD chuckie Reekie*s * sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel burnish't crest, 
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she loe's best, 

Willie'8 awa ! 

* Edinbursh. 



IL 



O Willie was a witty wight. 

And had o' things an unco' slight; 

Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, 

And trig an* brawx 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 
Willie's awa * 



III. 

The stifFest o' them a* he bow'd, 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
ThifT durst nae mair than he allow'd. 
That was a law • 
We've lost « birkie weel worth gowd, 
I Willie's awa ? 



POEMS. 



77 



IV. 

Now gawkies, taw pies, gowks and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding schools. 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stooU 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wlia could brush them down to mools 
Willie's awa ! 



The breth'ren o' the Commerce-Chaumer * 
May mourn their lo?s wi' doolfu* clamour ; 
He was a riictionar and grammar 

Amang them a* ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer 
Willie's awa ! 

VI. 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour,f 
And toothy critics by the score 

In bl(X)dy raw ! 
The adjutant o' a* the core 

Willie's awa ' 

VII. 

Now worthy G y's latin face, 

T ^r's and G 's modest grace ; 

M'K e, S 1, such a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a* maun meet some ither place, 
Willie's awa ! 

VIII. 

Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken. 
He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, 
Scar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckin 
By hoodie-craw ; 
Griefs gien his heart an unco kickin", 
Willie's awa ! 

IX. 

Now ev'r)- sour-mou'd grinin' blelluni, 
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their helium 
Willie's awa ! 



Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Etirick banks now roanng red 

While tempests blaw ; 
Bat every joy and pleasure's fled 

Willie's awa ! 

XL 
May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 



And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
Wl^eu I forget thee I V/illuc Ckeech, 
Thfi' far awa ' 

XII. 
May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him ' 
Until a pow as auld's Rlethusalem ! 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed. New Jerusalem 

Fleet wing aw« i 



ELEG'X 



PEG NICHOLSON.* 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay maiBy 
As ever trode on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And past the Mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And rode thro' thick and thin ; 
But now she's floating down the Nitb« 
And wanting even the skm. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare» 
And ance she bore a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith» 
For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And the priest he rode her sair : 
And much oppressed and bruised she wat i 
—As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c. 



• The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh of whldi 
Mr. C. was Secretary 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 

(Imperfect). 

[In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, the poet says :^The tua. 
ject is LiBP.uTY : Yeu know, my honourert frend 
how dear the theme is to me. I design it an irregu 
lar Orte for General Washington's birth-day. Auei 
having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms 
I come to Scotland thusj : 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath that hallowed turf where WAI.i.ACI 
lies! 



• Margaret Nicholson, the maniac, whose visitation! 
very much alarmed George the Third for his life. In 



f Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet na'Ming their steeds, the poet and his friend N icol seem 

>t Mr. Creech's house at breakfast. Burns often met to have had a pr. ference, in the way of doing honour, 

with them tjjere, when he en led. and hence the name of course, for the worthies who had used freedom with 

l£ Levee. both priest and king 



f& 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath.— 

Is this the power in freedom's war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate. 

Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star. 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless 
age. 



A PRAYER— IN DISTRESS. 

O THOU Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know ; 
Yet sure I am, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands. 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ; 
O, free my weary eyes from tears. 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be. 

To suit some wise design ; 
riien man mv soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repme ! 



A PRAYER, 



Do Thou, AH Good! for such Thou art 
In shades of iarkness hide. 

Wliere with intention I hawe err*d, 

No other plea I have. 
But, Thou art good ; and goodnean sdB 

Delighteth to forgive. 



ITHEN FAINTING FITS, AND OTHER ALARMING 
SYMPTOMS OF A PLEURISY OR SOME OTHER 
DANGEROUS DISORDER, WHICH INDEED 
STILL THREATENS ME, FIRST POT NATURE 
ON THE ALARM. 

O THOU unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In virhose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear. 

If I havp wqnder'd in those paths 

Of life 1 ought to shun ; 
AS something^ loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 

With passions wild and strong ; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 
Or frailty stept aside. 



DESPONDENCY: 

A HYMN. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene 

Have I so found it full c^ pleasing charms ! 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill b^ 
tween : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewin| 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart neath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, • Forgive my foul offence !* 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter heavenly Kiercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd yet to temptatioE 



O Thou, great governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
With that controling pow'r assist ev'n me. 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be. 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line, 
O, aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine ' 



LINES ON RELIGION. 

" *Tis thiSf my frieni, that streaks our morning 

bright ; 
'Tis this, that gilds the horror of our night ! 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are 

few; 
Wlien friends are faithless, or when foes pursue : 
*Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart 
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart : 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling c Tiscience spread her cloudless 

skies '' 



?OEMS. 



79 



EPISTLES IN VERSE 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. \Sth, 1785. 
Guit speed ar furder to you Jchny, 
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bony ; 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny 

The stiff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er wa it a stoup o' brany 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin* wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin* at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi* muckle wark, 
An' took my jocteleg * an' whatt it, 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men. 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better. 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells. 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives ^ an' whisky stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship Sir, I winna quat it. 

An' if ye mak" objections at it, 

Then ban' in nieve some day we'll knot it, 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi* Usquabae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks he spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An* a* the vittel in the yard, 

An* theekit right, 
I mean your ingle- side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 

Shall make u-s baith sae blythe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
At ye were nine year less than thretty. 

Sweet ane-an'-twenty. 



But stooks are cowpet * wi' the blast, 
Ab' now the sinn keeks m the west 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter; 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, 

Your's, Rab the Ranter. 



REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

INCLOSING A COPY OK HOLY WILLIE's PRAYl fc. 
WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. \lth, 1785. 
While at the stock the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r. 
Or in gulravagef rinnin scow'r 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

la idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they shou'd blame hoK 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, un' rather hardy, 
That I, a simple, countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Louse h-11 upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces. 
Their sighan, cantan, graje- proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers, an hauf-mile gracea, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whaws greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun, \ miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honor in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him. 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him 

See him, || the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleea 

By worthless skellums, 
An' not a muse erect her l»ad 

To cowe the blellums .' 



• Jocteleg— A knife. 
f Browdrr wivet — Alehouse wivet. 



• Coupprf— Tumbled over. 

t Gulravage — Running in a confused, diiorderlir 
manner, like boys when leaving school. 

% Gavin Hamilton, Ksq. 

II The poet has introduced the two first lines of thii 
stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamil 
ton. 



80 



BURNS' WORKS. 



O Pope, had f thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals tlieir deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 
Nor am I ev'a the thing I cou'd be, 
But twenty times, I rather wuu'd be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an* truth. 
For what ? to gie their malace skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin streight. 

All hail, religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee j 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch't an* foul wi' mony a stain. 

An' far unworthy of thy train. 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those, 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 

In spite o* crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs. 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
Bv scoundrels, even wi' holy robes. 

But hellish spirit. 

O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid liberal band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as Christians too renown'd 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An* some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gies you honor) 
Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. 

An' winning-manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
An* if impertinent I've been 



Impute it not, good ?IIr, in ana 

Wbase heart ne'er wrang*d f»> 
But to his utiinost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ys. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa 

mauchlink. 

(recommending a boy). 

Mbsgaville, May S, 1786. 
I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day. 

An' wad hae don't afF han* « 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith I muckle doubt him, 
Like Bcrapin' out luld Crummie's nicks, 
An* tell'n lies about them ; 
As lieve then I'd have then. 

Your clerkship he should sair^ 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 



Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. 
An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, 
The boy might learn to 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught. 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na ony fear. 
Ye'll catechise him every quirk, 

An' shore him weel wi' hell; 

An' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Ay when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae harae this comin Friday, 
Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 



My word of honour I hae gien, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en. 

To meet the Warld's worm f 
To try to get the twa to gree. 
An' name the airles f an' the fee, 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a Snick can draw. 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a'. 

In faith he's sure to get bins. 
To phrase you an' praise you. 

Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



♦ Masto" Tootie then lived ii V^uchline; 
in Cows. It was liis common practice to cut the nicks 
or markings from the horns of cattle, to disguise their 
age. — He was an artful tricli-contriving character ; 
hence he is called a Snick-drawer. In the poets 
"Address to the DeU" he styles that august personage 
an auld, snick-drawing dog ! 

t The ^tr/M— Earnest monev. 



POEMS 



TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

IS ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTEE HE SENT 

IN TUK COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC 

CAREER. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wha taks notice o' the bard ! 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma care about their jaw. 

The sensele-ss, gawky million ; 
I'll cock my nose abocn them a', 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

Twas noble, Sir , 'twas like yoursel, 

To grant your high protection : 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, 

Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho', by his • banes wha in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, 

I independent stand ay. — 

And when those legs to gudj, warm kailj 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A Ice dyke-side, a syhow-tail, 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' mony flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonie lasses baith, 

I'm tald they're loosome kimtners '. 

And God ble:-? young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard, 

A credit to bis country. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 

GLENRIDDhL, 
(extempore lines ON RETURINO A 

newspaper). 

JSIlisland, Monday Evening. 
Your news and review. Sir, I've read through 
and throiigh, Sir, 
With little admiring or blaming : 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Oar friends the reviewers, those cLippers and 
hewers, 

Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir ; 
But of nieet, or unmeet, in & fabric complete^ 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 



* Diocenes. 



My goose-qui!l too rude is tD tell all your good* 
ness 

Bestowed on your servant, the Poet; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir, should know itl 



TO TER HAUGHTY,* 

ON HIS BIKTH-DAV. 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 
Health, ay uiisuur'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf, 

Tliis natal iiiorn, 
I see thy life is stutf o' prief, 

Scarce (juite half wt n.< 

This day thou metes threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
( The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven tunes seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi* sorrow 

Thy lengths u'd days on this ble^t morrow^ 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure— * 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'eniugs funny 

Bless them aud thee. 

Farweel, auld birkie i Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deii he daurna steer ye 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye. 

For nie, shame fa' oie. 
If neist my heart 1 dinna wear ye 

Wliile Burns they c* i 



THE VOWELS J 

A TALE. 

'TwAS where the birch and sounding thonf 
are ply'd, 
The noisy douiicile of pe<lant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throw*, 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 



• Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, near DtinifYie* 
This is the J. 1>. who, at the Kxoise Courts, calietl foi 
Burns's reporls: they she wwl thai /»f, *<rhik' tic ailt'J 
up to the law, t-onlil recoin-ilf hisdiny with Immam 
ty. ' AJthu' an Exclsoinan he had a heart.' 



82 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Upon a time, Sir Abecf che great, I 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, ! 

His awful chair of state resolves to moitnt, 
And call the trembling vowels to account. — 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
jBut ah ! deft rm'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
ilis twisted head look'd backward on his way. 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted ai ! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his 

own. 
Pale he lurrenders at the tyrant's throne.' 
The pedattt stifles keen the Roman sound, 
Not all his raons^rel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next the title following close behind, 
bf to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disd»in*d reply : 
The pedant swung bis felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel uf despairing woe ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain, the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art: 
So grim, deforin'd, with honors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants* tears he dippM his right, 
Baptiz'd him e«, and kick'd him from his sight. 



A SKETCH. 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tiirt, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets. 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive V amour ; 
So travell'd monkies their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore but little understood ; 
Fineering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His .solid sense — by inches you must tall, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 
Still makmg woik his selfish craft must mend. 



TO THE OWL; 



BY JOHN M'CREDDIK. 



Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth, 
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight 
hour^ 



Is it some blast that gathers in the north, 
Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow*r 

Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade. 
And leaves thee here, unsheltei'd and forlorn . 

Or fear that winter will thy nest invade ? 
Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn ? 

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feathered traia^ 
To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom 

No friend to pity when thou dost complain, 
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy hom« 

Sing on sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain. 

And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song : 
Sing on sad mourner ! to the night complaic. 

While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek 
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall ? 

Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break? 
Less happy he who lists to pity's call ? 

Ah no, sad owl ' nor is thy voice less sweet, 
That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there ; 

That springs gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst 
repeat ; 
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair : 

Nor that the treble songsters of the day, 

Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from 
thee ; 

Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray, 
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.— 

From some old tow'r, thy melancholy dome, 
While the gray walls and desert solitudes 

Return each note, responsive to tne gloom 
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; 

There hooting ; I will list more pleas'd to tbet, 
Than ever lover to the nightingale ; 

Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery, 
Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 



EXTEMPORE, 

IM THE COURT OF SESSIOK. 

Tune — " Gillicrankie." 
Lord Advocate, Robert Dundas. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graped for't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came s1ioit» 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



iFOEMS. 



gs^ 



Mr. Henry Erskins. 

Collected Harry stood a wee, 

Then opeu'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd the gatherina: storm, man : 
Like wind-diiv'a hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-waukea'd wi' the din, man. 



OK HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IM 
THE REV. DR. B *S VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



You 

Y..m' 
H'..w 



ADDRESS 

TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

(a parody on robin adair). 

•IE welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 

v u«'lti>iiie to Despots. Dumourier. — 

lidcs I);iiipieif do ? 

mil B>iurii(iiivi!!e too ? 

;; (i tlu V m>t i«iiie aloriu[ with you. 



Then let us fight about, Dumouier , 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, 

'Till freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be d-mned no doubt— Dnmoune*- 



EXTEMPORE EFFUSIONS. 

[The Poet pai(l a visit on horseb.ick lo Carlisle: whii 
he was at table hi-; steed was turned out to graze in 
an enclosure, but wandered, probably in quest of 
better pasture, into an adjoining one: it was im. 
pounded by order of the Mayor — whose term of of- 
fice expired next day: — The Muse thus delivered 
herself on the occasioni : 

Was e'er puir poet sae befitted, 
The mr.-°*^"r drunk — the horse committed ; 
Puir harmless beac take thet nae care, 
Thou'lt be a horse, when he's nae mair-(may®/ 'v 



Du- 



TO A FRIEND, 

with a pound of snuff. 

O could I give thee India's wealth, 
i As I this trifle send ; 
Why then the joy of both would be, 
To share it with a friend. 

But golden sands ne'er yet have graced 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take wh;it gold can never buy, 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



' ti 


!■• Frsticc «'ith y"u, Dumourier,-— 


' rt 


!t ^'-i.ir,- u-rh \<iu, Dumourier: — 


1 ;; 


<!.• i'';ir;<-i' IVlfh VOU, 


' t , 


"V riv (1 ;!tice with you ; 


') ' 


'■'i! i il «iiiii:<i a dance with you, Dumoa* 



• It is almost needless to obsene that thsurii% oi 
Rajin Adal , begins thug : — 

You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair; 
You're welcome to I'axton, Robin Adair.-^ 
How does J hnnv Mackerell do ? 
Aye, and Luke Gardener too? 
Why did tbfsy not come along with ywt. Robit 
Adaif } 



ESSAY 

UPON 

SCOTTISH rOETRY, 

INCLUDING THE POETRY OF BURNS, 

BY DR. CURRIE 



That Buras had not the advantages of a clas- 
sical education, or of any degree of acquaintance 
with the Greek or Roman writers in their ori- 
ginal dress, has appeared in the history of his 
life. He acquired indeed some knowledge of the 
French language, but it does not appear that he 
was evar much conversant in French literature, 
nor is there any evidence of hia having derived 
any of his poetical stories from that source. 
With the English classics he became well ac- 
quainted in the course of his life, and the effects 
of this acquaintance are observaWe in his latter 
productions ; but the character and style of his 
poetry were formed very early, and the model 
which he followed, in as far ais he can be said to 
have had one, is to be sought for in the works 
of the poets who have written in the Scottish 
dialect — in the works of such of them more es- 
pecially, as are familiar to the peasantry of Scot- 
land. Some observations on these may form a 
proper introduction to a more particular exami- 
nation of the poetry of Burns. The studies of 
the editor in this direction are indeed very re- 
cent and very imperfect. It would have been 
imprudent for him to have entered on this sub- 
ject at all, but for the kindness of Mr. Ramsay 
of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to 
acknowledge, and to whom the reader must as- 
«ribe whatever is of any value in the folKnvitig 
imperfect sketch of literary compositions in the 
Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious and 
which does not seem to be satisfactorily explain- 
ed, that in the thirteenth century the language 
of the two British nations, if at all different, 
differed oniy in dialect, the Gaelic in the one, 
like the Welch and Armoric in the ether, being 
confined to the mountainous districts. * The 
English under the Edwards, and the Scots under 
Wallace and Bruce, spoke the same language. 
We may observe also, that in Scotland the his- 
tory ascends to a period nearly as remote as in 
England. Barbour and Blind Harry, James the 
First, Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, who liv- 



• HUto^ical E.tstys or Scottish Sort^, p. 
thaoD. 



3, by Mr. 



ed in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteeatk e«Bl> 

turies, were coeval with the fathers of poetry is 
England ; and in the opinion of Mr. Wharton, 
not inferior to them in genius or in composition. 
Though the language of the two countries gra- 
dually deviated from each other during this pe- 
riod, yet the difference on the whole was not 
considerable ; nor perhaps greater than between 
the different dialects of the different parts <>i 
Eng'and in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, the 
langua^^e of Scotland was in a flourishing condi- 
tion, wanting only writers in prose equal to those 
in verse. Two cirrjinistances, propitious on the 
whole, operated to prevent this. The first waa 
the passion of the Scots for composition in La- 
tin ; and the second, the accession of James the 
Sixth to the Enjlish throne. It may easily b» 
imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his ad- 
mirable talents, even in part, to the cultivation of 
his native tongue, as was done by the revivers of 
letters in Italy, he would have left compositions 
in that language which might have excited other 
men of genius to have foliuwed his example,f 
and give duiation to the language itself. The 
union of the two crowns in the person of James, 
overthrew all reasonable ex])ectation of this kind. 
That monarch, seated on the English throne, 
would no longer be addressed in the rude dia- 
lect in which the Scottish clergy had so often 
insulted his dignity. He encouraged Latin or 
English only, both of which he prided himself 
on writing with purity, though he himself never 
could acquire the English pronunciation, but 
spoke with a Scottish idiom and intonation to 
the last. Scotsmen of talents declined writing in 
their native language, which they knew was not 
acceptable to their learned and pedantic mo- 
narch ; and at a time whei national prejudice 
and enmity prevailed to a great degree, they dis- 
dained to study the nicities oi" the Englieh tongue, 
though of so much easier acquisition than a 
dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond 
of Hawthorndeo, the only Scotsmen who 'viote 



t e. g. The Authors ©f the Delicia Poetarum Scatty 
runt, Ac 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



85 



•oetrv in those times, were exceptions. They 
studied the language of England, and compoeed 
in it with precision and elegance, They were 
however the last of their countrynaeti who de* 
served to he considered as poets in that century. 
The muses of Scotland sunk iito silence, and 
did not again raise thinr voices for a period of 
eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this ex- 
treme depression among a people comparatively 
jearned, enterprising, and ingenious ? Shall 
ire impute it tt the fanaticism of the covenan- 
ters, or tc the tyranny f the house of Stuart 
after their restoration to <he throne ? Doubt- 
lew these ciuses 0|<erated, but they seem un- 
equal to account foi the effect. In England si- 
milir distractions and oppressions took place, yet 
piH'try flourished there in a remarkable degree. 
During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and 
Dryden sung, and Milton raised his strain of un- 
paralleled grandeur. To the causes already 
mentioned, another must be added, in account- 
ing for the torpor of Scottish literature — the 
want (;f a proper vehicle for men of genius to 
employ. The civil wai's had frightened away 
the Latin muses, and no standard had been es- 
tablished of the Scottish tongue, which was de- 
viating still farther from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland may be 
dated from the establishment of the union, or 
rather from the extinction of the rebellion in 
1715. The nations being finally incorporated, 
it was cleajly seen that their tongues must in 
tie t:m] incorporate also ; or rather indeed that 
th.e Scottish language must degenerate into a 
provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who 
would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to 
pii.ii.ence in the united legislature. 

S'jon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
peareil, who studied the EngUsh classics, and 
imit ited their beauties in the same manner as 
they studied the classics of Greece and Rome. 
They hati admirable models of composition late- 
ly |iie>ented to them by the writers of the reign 
of Queen Anne ; particularly in the periodical 
pHp'^i> iiub!i>hed l>y Steele, Addison, and their 
a>.5iiciared friends, which circulated widely 
through Sc'itland, and diffused every where a 
taste for purity of style and sentiment, and for 
c-itical diMiwi>:tioti. At length, the Scottish 
writrrs suc-eeded in English composition, and a 
ui^ion was tortiied of the literary talents, as well 
as of the legidarures of the rwo nations. On 
this occasion the | ottx took the lead. While 
Henry Home," Dr. Wallace, and their learned 
associates, were only laying in their intellectual 
(tores, and studying to -lear themselves of their 
Scottish idioms, Thom>un, Mallet, and Hjmil- 
ton of Bangour, had ni;ine their appearance be- 
Tore the piiMic, and hetn em oiled on the list of 
Englisli poets. The writers in prose followed 
—a numerous s:«d poweiful band, and poured 
»h»ir ample store* infu the genera! str'iam of Bri- 



tish literatiire. Scotland possessed her fon.' unu 
versities before the accession of James to the 
English throne. Immediately before the union, 
she acquired her parochial schools. These es- 
tablishments combining happily together, made 
the elements of knowledge ol easy acquisition 
and presented a direct path, by which the ar- 
dent student might be carried al«mg into the re- 
cesses of science or learning. As civil br-jils 
ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually died 
away, a wider field was opened to literary ambi- 
tion, and the influence of the Scottish insritu 
tions for instruction, on the productions of ths 
press, became moie and more apparent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the estai)lish- 
ment of the parochial schools produced eflects 
on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have 
not hitherto been suspected, and which, though 
less splendid in their nature, are not however 
to be regarded as trivial, whether we cr^nsider 
the happiness or the morals of the peon.fe. 

There is some reason to believe, that the 
original inhabitants of the British isles jx^ssessed 
a peculiar and interesting species of music, 
which being banished from the plains by the 
successive invasions of the Saxons, D,ines. and 
Normans, was preserved with the native race, 
in the wilds of Ireland aiid in tlie mountains of 
Scotland and Wales. The lri.-.h, the Scottish, 
and the Welsh music, difier indeed from each 
other, but the ditu.'ren:'e may he considered as 
in dialect oidy, and prohil)l\' produced bv the 
influence of time, like the diffeient dialects of 
their common language. It' this conjecture be 
true, the Scottish music must be more imme- 
diately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland 
tunes, thoui^h now of a character somewhat dis- 
tinct, must have descended from the mountains 
in remote ages. Whatever credit may be given 
to conjectures, evidently involved in great un- 
certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scot- 
tish peasantry have been long in possession of a 
nmnber of songs and ballads composed in their 
native dialect, and sung to their native music. 
The subjects of these compositions were such as 
most interested the simple inhabitants, and in 
the succession of time varied probably as the 
condition of society varied. During the sepa- 
ration and the hostility of the two nations, these 
songs and ballade, as far as our imperfect docu- 
ments enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike ; 
such as the Huntis of Cheviot, and the BattU 
of Harlaw. After the union of the two crowns 
when a certain degree of peace and tranquillity 
took place, the rural muse of Scotland breathed 
in softer accents. " In the want of real evi 
dence respecting the history of our MUigs," suy« 
Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " recourse may be hac 
to conjecture. One would be disj)o>ed to think, 
that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes 
were clothed with new words after the union 
of the CI owns. The inhabitants ot the border* 
who bad f)rmerly been warriora from choice, 
and husbandmen from nece.srvty, either (jsiitted 
the itjuiitrv, lir were tra:.s;o; rr.eti into real sliwi- 



ir 



36 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



herds, easy in tteir c rcumstances, and satisfied 
with their lot. Soine sparks of that spirit of 
chivalry for which they are celebrated by Frois- 
iart, remained suflicient to inspire elevation of 
Bentiment and gallantry towards the fair sex. 
The familiarity and kindness which had long 
subsisted between the gentry and the peasantry, 
could not all at once be obliterated, and this 
connexion tended to sweeten rural life. In this 
state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of 
juind, the love of poetry and music would still 
maintain its ground, though it would naturally 
assume a lorm congenial to the more peaceful 
itate of society. The minstrels, whose metrical 
tales used once to rouse the borderers like the 
trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of the 
Legislature (1579), classed with rogues and va- 
gabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. Knox 
ftnd his disciples influenced the Scottish parlia- 
ment, but contended in vain with her rural 
muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably 
on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its tri- 
butary streams, one or more original geniuses 
may have arisen who were destined to give a 
«ew turn to the ta3te of their cnunti ynicn. 
They would see that the events and jjursiiits 
which chequer private life were the i)roj)er sub- 
jects for popular poetry. Love, uliirh had for- 
merly held a divided sway with gloiy and am- 
bition, became now the masur-i> ,ssi(in of the 
soul. To portray in lively and dela'ate colours, 
though with a hasty hand, the hopes and fears 
that agitate the breast of the hve-sick swain, 
or forlorn maiden, affurd ample scojjl- to the 
rural poet. Love-songs, of whicii Tibullus 
himself would not have been ashamed, might 
be composed by an uneducated rustic with a 
slight tincture of letters ; or if in these songs 
the character of the rustic be sometimes assum- 
ed, the truth of character, and the language of 
nature, are preserved. With unaffected sim- 
plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most 
likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy 
mistress, -or to regain a fictkle lover. Even in 
such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
jreaks through, and dispels the deep and settled 
gloom which characterizes the sweetest of tiie 
Highland luinags, or vocal airs. Nor are these 
songs all plaintive; many of them are lively 
and humorous, and some appear to us coarse 
and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine 
descriptions of the manners of an energetic and 
sequestered people in their hours of mirth and 
festivity, though in their portraits some objects 
are brought into open view, which more fasti- 
dious painters would have thrown into shade. 

" As those rural poets sung for amusement, 
izX for gain, their eftusions seldom exceeded a 
^ve-8ong, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
whicL, like th» words of the elder minstrels, 
were seldom committed to writing, but trea- 
lured up in the memory of their friends and 
oeighbo irs. Neither known to the learned nor 
patronized by the gr«at, these rustic bards lived 
»iid died in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, 



; their story, and even their v«ry iwmes hav^ 

: been forgotten. When proper models for pas* 

j toral songs were produced, there would be n« 

j want of imitators. To succeed in this speciei 

j of composition, soundness of understanding an^ 

j sensibility of heart were more requisite tha* 

j flights of imagination or pomp of nurahej'su 

Great changes have certainly taken place in 

I Scottish song- writing, though we cannot trac€ 

j the steps of this change ; and few of the pieces 

admired in Queen Mary's time are now to be 

! discovered in modern collections. It is possible, 

though not probable, that the music may have 

remained nearly the same, though the words to 

the tunes were entirely new-modelled." 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. It 
cannot, however, be presumed, that the state o« 
ease and tranquillity described by Mr. Ramsay 
took place among the Scottish peasantry imme- 
diately on the union of the crowns, or indeed 
during the greater part of the seventeenth cen- 
tury. The Scottish natfion, through all ranks, 
was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the 
religious persecutions which succeeded each 
other in that disastrous period ; it was not till 
after the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent 
establishment of their beloved form of church 
government, that the peasantry of the Lowlands 
enjoyed com[)arative repose; and it is since that 
period that a great number of the most admired 
Scottish songs have been produced, though the 
tunes to which they are sung, are in general of 
much greater antiquity. It is not unreason^ible 
to suppose, that the peace and security derived 
from the Revolution, and the Union, produced 
a favoui-able change on the rustic poetry of 
Scotland ; and it can scarcely be doubted, that 
the institution of parish schools in 1696, by 
which a certain degree of instruction was dif- 
fused universally among the peasanti-y, contri- 
buted to this happy effect. 

Soou after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the 
Sfottish Theocritus. He was born on the high 
mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan- 
dale, in a small hamlet i)y the tianks of Glengo- 
nar, a stream which descends into the Clyde. 
The ruins of this hamlet are still shown to the 
inquiring traveller. He was the son of a pea- 
sant, and probably received such instruction as 
his narish-school bestowed, and the poverty 37' 
his parents admitted. Ramsay made his ap- 
pearance in Edinburgh, in the beginning of the 
present century, in the humble character of an 
apprentice to a barber ; he was then fouiteen or 
rifteen years of age. By degrees he acquired 
notice for his social disposition, and his taleat 
for the composition of verses in the Scottish 
idiom ; and, changing his profession for that of 
a bookseller, he became intimate with many of 
the literary, as well as the gay and fashionable 
characters of his time.* Having published a 



* " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and hu 
club of small wits, who, about 1? 9. published a very 
poor miscellany, to whioh Dr Young, tbe author d 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



81 



roTume of poems of his own in 1721, which 
w&s favourably received, he undertook to make 
a collection of ancient Scottish poems, under the 
title of the Ever- Green, ;ind was afterwards 
encouraged to present to the world a collection 
of Scottish songs. ". From what sources he 
procured them," says Ftamsay of Othtertyre, 
•' whether from tradition or manusciipt, is un- 
certain. As in the Ever- Green he made some 
rash attempts to improve on the originals of his 
ancient poems, he probably used still greater 
freedom with the songs and ballads. The truth 
cannot, however, he known on tliis point, till 
manuscripts of the songs printed by him, more 
ancient thin the present century, shall be pro 
duced, or access be obtained to his own papers, 
if they are stiil in existence. To several tunes 
which either wanted words, or had words that 
were improper or imperfect, he or his friends 
adapted verses worthy of the melodies they ac 
. "iompanied, worthy indeed of the golden age. 
These verses were perfectly intelligible to every 
rustic, yet justly admired by persons of taste, 
who regarded them as the genuine offspring of 
the pastoral muse. In some respects Ramsay 
had advantages not possessed by poets writing 
in the Scottish dialect in our days. Songs in 
the dialect of Cumberland or Lancashire, could 
never be popular, because these dialects have 
never been spoken by persons of fashion. But 
till the middle of the present century, every 
Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, spoke 
a truly Doric language. It is true the English 
moralists and poets were by this time read by 
every person of condition, and considered as the 
standards for polite compov .';ion. But, as na- 
tional prejudices were still st\ ong, the busy, the 
learned, the gay, and the fair continued to speak 
their native dialect, and that with an elegance 
and poignancy of which Scotsmen of the present 
day can have no just notion. I am old enough 
to have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leuchat, 
a scholar and a man of fashion, who survived 
all the mmibers of the Union Parliament, in 
which he had a seat. His pronunciation and 
phraseology differed as much from the common 
dialect, as the language of St. James's from that 
»f Thames Street. Had we retained a court 
and parliament of our own, the tongues of the 
two sister kingdoms would indeed have differed 
like the Castilian and Portuguese ; but each 
would have its own classics, not in a single 
branch, but in the whole circle of literature. 

" Ramsay astociated with the men of wit 
and fashion of his day, and seveial of them at- 
tempted to write poetry in his manner. Per- 
sons too idle or too dissipated to think of com- 
positions that required much exertion, succeeded 
very happily in making tender soimets to fa- 
vonrite tunes in complimeDt to their mistresses, 
tnd transfoi niing them»elvcs into impassioned 



slie;)herds, caught the language ol .ne character* 
thi^y assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, 
Robert Crawfurd of Auchinames, wrote the 
modern song of Tweedside,* whicii has beer, 
so nuich admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, 
the first of our lawyers who both spoke and 
wrote English elegantly, composed, in the cha- 
racter of a love- sick swain, a beautiful song, 
beginnina. Mi/ she-ep I neglected, I lost my 
sfte.('p-h ook, on the marriage of his mistress, 
Miss Foibes, with Ronald Crawfurd. And 
about twelve years afterwards, tit sister of Sir 
Gilbert wrote the ancient words to the tune oi 
the Flowers of the Forest^-f and supposed to al- 
luiie to the battle of Flowden. In spite of tho 
double rhyme, it is a sweet, and though in some 
parts allegorical, a natural expression of national 
sorrow. The more m >dern words to the same 
tune, beginning, I Itave seen the smiling of foV" 
tune heguiling, were written long before by Mrsi, 
Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who outlived 
all the first group of literati of the present cen- 
tury, ail of whom were very fond of her. I waa 
delighted with her company, tiiough when I saw 
her, she was very old. Mu:-h did she know 
that is now lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scottish 
songs, produced in the earlier part of the pre- 
sent century, may be mentioned the ballad ol 
Hardiknvte, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad oi 
WiUinni and Blargaret ; and the song entitled 
the Bilks of lavermay, by Mallet ; the love- 
song, beginning, Far ever. Fortune, wilt thou 
prove, produced by the youthful muse of Thom- 
son ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes 
of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the 
revival of letters in Scotland, suhiequent to the 
Union, a very general taste seems to have pre- 
vailed for the national songs and music. *' For 
many years," says Mr. Ramsay, " the singing 
of songs was the great delight of the higher and 
ujiddle order of the people, as well as of the 
peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music 
has interfered with this amusement, it is still 
very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years 
ago, the common people were not only exceed- 
ingly fond of songs and ballads, but of metrical 
history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn oi 
youth, listened to ihem with delight, when 
reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and 
Bruce again-t the S'liit/irons. Lord Hailea 
was wont to call Jii;nd iLury their Bible, he 
being tiieir great lav ui.r>- n(Xt tliu Scriptures. 
When, therefore, vm ;:i the v.,ie of life felt the 
first enu)tion uf ;.eniu>, )!(.■ uanted not modeli 
sui gtrieris, Buc iin u;,'ii the seeds oi poetry 
were scattered wifh .i plentiful hand among the 
Scottish peasantry, the pr duct was probably 
like that of pears aiid apples — of a thousand 
that sprung up, nine hundred and fifty are so 
bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five oi 



Thought*, prefixed a copy of verses." 
fa letter f'om Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyr : 
Hot 



* Beginning, What beauties does Flora disclose 
t Begi' ling, I have heard a biting at ouii etoes 
milkinx 



88 



ESSAA' UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



more are passable and iisefti! ; and the rest of 
an exquisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and Bjrns 
are wildings of this last description. They had 
the examyle of the elder St oitish poets ; they 
U'ere not without the aid of Jthe besr English 
writers ; and, what was of still more import- 
ance, they were no strangers to the book of na- 
ture, and to the hook of God." 

From this general view, it ivS apparent that 
Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great 
measure the leviver of the rural poetry r.f his 
country. His co!le!;tion of ancient Scottish 
poems under the name of The Eoer-(ire.en, his 
collection of Scottish sont^s, and his own poems, 
the principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, 
have been universally read among the peasantry 
of his country, and have in some degree super- 
seded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as 
recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Bu/ns 
was well acquainted with all of these. He had 
also before him the poems of Fergusson in the 
Scottish dialect, which have been produced in 
»ur own times, and of which it will be neces- 
sary to give a short account. 

Fergusson was born of parents who had it in 
their power to procure him a liberal education, 
a circumstance, however, which in Scotland, 
implies no very high rank in society. From a 
Well written and apparently authentic account 
of his life, we learn that he spent six years at 
the schools of Ec'nburgh and Dundee, and se- 
veral years at the universities of Edinburgh and 
St. Andrew's. It appears that he was at one 
time de^tiued for the Scottish church ; but as 
he advanced towards manhood, he renounced 
that intention, and at Edinburgh entered the 
office of an attorney. Fergusson had sensibility 
of mind, a waim and generous heart, and ta- 
lents foT society, of the most attractive kind. 
Tu such a man no situation coi]d je mor; dan- 
gerous than that in which he was placed. The 
excesses into which he was led, impaired his 
feeble constitution, and he sunk under them in 
the month of October, 1774, in his 23d or 24th 
year. Burns was not actjuainted with the 
poems of this youthful genius when he himself 
begin to write poetry; and when he first saw 
them, he had renounced the muses. But while 
he resided in the town of Irvine, meeting with 
Fergvssons Scottish Poems, he informs us that 
he " strung his lyre anew with emula'-ing vi- 
gour." Touched by the sympathy originating 
in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of si- 
milar fortune. Burns regarded Fergusson with 
a purtial and an affectionate admiration. Over 
his grave he erected a monument, as has al- 
ready been mentioned ; and his poems he has 
in several instances made the subjects of his 
imitation. 

From this acfount of the Scottish poems 
known to Burns, those who are acquainted 
with them will see they are chiefly humorous 
or pathetic ; and under one or other of these 
•iescriptions most of his own poems will cla»s. 
l*t us comoare him with his predecessors un- 



der each of th.se points of view, anti dose ou: 

examination with a few general observations. 
- It has frequently been observed, that Scoi 
land has produced, comjiaratively speaking, few 
writers who have excelled in humour. But this 
observation is true only when applied to thos? 
\yho have continued to reside in their own coua 
try, and have confined themselves to composi 
tion in pure English ; and in these ciirunv 
stances it admits of an easy explanation. The 
Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect 
of Scotland, havt been at all times remarkable 
for dwelling on subjects of humour, in which 
indeed some of them have excelled. It woulii 
be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland 
having become jirovincial, is now scarcely suit- 
ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk of 
the (rrene was written by James the First of 
Scotland, this accomplished monarch, who had 
received an English education under Henry the 
Fourth, and who bore arms under his gallant 
successor, gave the model on which the greater 
part of the humorous productions of the rustic 
muse of Scotland had been formed Christis 
Kiik of the (j'rene was leprinted by Ramsay, 
somewhat modernized in the orthography, and 
two cantos were added by him, in which he at- 
tempts to carry on the design. Hence the poem 
of King James is usually printed in Ramsay's 
works. The royal bard describes, in the first 
canto, a rustic dance, and aftarwards a conten- 
tion in archery, ending in an affray, Ramsay 
relates the restoration of concord, and the re- 
newal of the rural sports with the humours of a 
country wedding. Though each of the poets 
describes the manners of his respective age, yet 
in the whole piece there is a very sufficient uni- 
formity ; a striking proof of the identity of cha- 
racter in the Scottish peasantry at the two pe- 
riods, distant from each other three hundied 
years. It is an honourable distinction to this 
body of men, that their character and manners, 
very little embellished, have been found to be 
susceptible of an amusing and interesting spe- 
cies of poetry ; and it must ai;pear not a little 
curious, that the single nation of modern Eu- 
rtipe which possesses an original poetry, should 
have received the model, follovved by their ru9» 
tic bards, from the monarch on the throne. 

The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk 
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy, .ire among the 
happiest of his productions. His chief excel- 
lence indeed, lay in the description of rural cha- 
racters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not 
possess any very high powers either of imagin* 
tion or of understanding. He was well ac- 
quainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their 
lives and opinions. The subject was in a great 
measure new ; his talents were equal to the 
subject, and he has shown that it may >e hap- 
pily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his G*.ntU 
Shepherd, the characters are delineations from 
nature, the descriptive parts are in the genwinf 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



etyie of beautifiii simplicity, the passions and 
affect ions of rural life are finely portrayed, and 
the heiTt is pleasingly interested in the hajipi- 
ness that is bestow el on innocence and virtue. 
Throughout tlie whole there is aji air of reality 
which the most carele-s reader cannot but per- 
ceive ; and in fact no poem ever perhaps ac- 
quired *o high a rt'putation, in which truth re- 
ceived so little embtllishment from the imagina- 
tion. In his pastoral songs, and his rural tales, 
Rimsay appears to less advantage, indeed, but 
Btill with considerable atti-action. The story of 
the Monk arid the Miller's Wife, though some- 
wjiat licentious, may rank with the happiest 
productions of Prior or La Fontaine. But when 
he attempts subjects from higher hfe, and aims 
at pure English composition, he is feeble and 
uninteresting, and seldom even reaches medio- 
crity. Neither are his familiar epistles and 
elegies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much 
approbation. Though Fergusson had higher 
powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius 
was not of the highest order ; nor did his learn- 
ing, which was cjonsideiable, imorove his ge- 
nius. His poems written in pure English, in 
which he often follows classical models, though 
•uperior to the English poems oiF Ramsay, sel- 
dom rise above mediocrity ; but in those com- 
posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very 
successful. He was, in general, however, less 
happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his muse 
As he spent the greater part of his life in Edin- 
burgh, and wrote for his amusement in the in- 
tervals of business or dissipation, his Scottish 
poems are chiefly founded on the incidents of a 
town life, wnich, though they are not suscepti- 
ble of humour, do not admit of those delinea- 
tions of scenery and manners, which vivify the 
rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeably 
amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The 
town eclogues of Fergusson, if we may so deno- 
minate them, are however faithful to nature, 
and often distinguished by a very happy vein of 
humour. His poems entitled The JJaft Days, 
The Ainy's BiTth-dny in Edinhuryh, JLeith 
Rtues, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this 
character. In these, particularly in the last, he 
imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as Ram- 
say had done before him. His Address to the 
Tron-hirk Bed is an exquisite piece of humour, 
which Burnj has scarcely excelled. In appre- 
ciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought to be 
recollected, that his poems are the careless effu- 
sions of an irregular though amiable young man, 
who wrote for the periodical papers of the day, 
and who died in early youth. Had his life been 
prolonged under happier circumstances of for- 
tune, he would probably have risen to much 
higher reputation. He might have excelled in 
rural poetrv, for though his professed pastorals 
tn the established Sicilian model, are stale and 
aninteresting. The Farmer' $ Ingle,* which, 



• The Cat ner's flreHide. 



may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is tb« 
happiest of all his productions, and certainly 
was the archetype of the Cutter's Satn^daf 
Night. Fergusson, and more especially Burns, 
have shown, that the character and manners ol 
the peasantry of Scotland, of the present timet, 
are as well adapted to poetry, as in the days of 
Ramsay, or of the author of Christ is Kirk of 
the Grene. 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than 
that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, an 
he himself informs us, he had "frequently in hi« 
eye, but rather with a view to kindle at their 
flame, than to servile imitation.' His desciip- 
tive powers, whether the objects on which they 
are employed be comic or serious, animate, or 
inanimate, are of the highest order. — A supe- 
riority of this kind is essential to every species 
of poetical excellence. In one of his earlier 
poems his plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson 
of contentment on the lower classes of society, 
by showing that their superiors are neitlier 
much better nor happier than themselves ; and 
this he chooses to execute in the form of a dia- 
logue between two dogs. He introduces this 
dialogue by an account of the persons and cha- 
racters of the speakers. The first, whom he 
has named Coesar, is a dog of condition :— 

•' His locked, letttr'd, braw brass collar, 
Showed him the gentleman and scholar,** 

High-bred though he is, he is however full (A 
condescension : 

" At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
An* stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.^ 

The other, Luath, is a " plougman's- collie," 
but a cur of a good heart and a sound under- 
standing. 

" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place ; 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineat- 
ed. Their gambols, before they sit down to 
moralize, are described with an equal degree al 
happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, 
the character, as well as the diferent condition 
of the two speakers, is kept in view. The 
speech of Luath, in which he enumerates the 
comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- 
count of their merriment on the first day of th« 
year : 

" That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the dooi on Irosty winds. 



90 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



The Kcppy ivek^ vi' m.intling ream, 
Arid tTieds a lieart-i'.ispirin' steam ; 
The ^vntin pipe, and sneeshin' mill. 
Are handed round wi' rig'ut o;ui(i-will ; 
The canty auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantiu' thro' the house — 
My heart has heen sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hue barkit wV tkem." 



Of all the animals who have moralized on hu- 
man aflFairs since the days of A^^sup, the dog 
(Seems best entitled to this priviic^^e ;is well from 
his superior sagacit\, ;is from Ids lieing, more 
than any other, the friend and associate of mao. 
The doii;s of Burns, exfeptinn' in tl.eii talent for 
moralizing, are do\vui!t>ht dous. The " twa 
dogs" are constantly kept Isefore our eyes, and 
the contrast hitwwn their form ;ind character 
as dogs, and the sagacity ot their conversation, 
heightens the humour, and deepens the impres- 
sion of the poet's sitire. Though in this poem 
the chief excellence may he considered as hu- 
mour, yet great talents are displayed in its com- 
position ; the happiest powers of description 
and the deepest insight into tiie human heart. 
It is se!d;)m, howevei-, that the humour of Burns 
appears in so simple a /orm. The liveliness of 
his sensibility frequently impels him to intro- 
duce into subjects of humour, emotions of ten- 
derness or of p'ty ; and, where occasion admits, 
he is sometimes carried on to exert the higher 
powers of imagination. In such instances he 
leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergusson, 
and associates himself with the masters of Eng- 
lish poetry, whose language he frequently as- 
sumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex- 
amples may be found in The Death and Dying 
Words of poor Mdilie, in The auld Farmer's 
New- Year's Morning Salutation to his Mare 
Maggie, and in many other of his poems. The 
praise of whisky is a favourite subject with 
Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of 
Scotch Drink. After mentioning its cheering 
influence in a variety of situations, he describes 
with singular liveliness and power of fancy, its 
stimulating effects on the blacksmith working 
at his forge : 

' Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong fore-hammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour." 

Again, however, he sinks into humour, aad 
loncludes the poem with the following most 
kiighable, but most irreverent apostrophe ; 

* Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Though whyles yt raoistify your leather, 
'Till where you sit, on craps o' heather, 
Ye tine your dara 



Freedom and WKsky gang theglther, 
Tak aff your dram!" 

Df this union of humour, with the highe; 
powers of imagination, instances may be found 
in the poem entitled Death and Dr. Hornbook, 
and in almost every stanza of the Address t6 
the Deil, one of the happiest of his productions. 
After reproaching this terrible being with all 
his " doings" and misdeeds, in the course of 
which he passes through a series of Scottish 
superstitions, and rises at times into a high 
strain of poetry ; he concludes this address, de- 
livered in a tone of great familiarity, not alto- 
getiier unmixed with apprehension, in the fol- 
lowing words : 

" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ' 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ' 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still ha'e a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

Ev'n for your sake ! 

Humour and tenderness are here so happit; 
intermixed, that it is impossible to "iay which 
I preponderates. 

I Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
I Causeway and the Plainst'ines,* of Edinburgh 
I This probably suggested to Burn? his dialogue 
between the Old and New Bridge over the river 
Ayr. The nature of such subjects requires that 
they shall be treated humorously, and Fergusson 
has attempted nothing beyond this. Though 
the Causeway and the Plainstones talk to- 
gether, no attempt is made to personify the 
speakers. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr^ 
tiie poet, " press'd by care," or " inspired by 
whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, 
and wandered out alone in tfee daikness and so- 
litude of a winter night, to the mouth of the 
river, where the stillness was interrupted only 
by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. 
It was after midnight. The Dungeon-clock 
had struck two, and the sound had been re- 
peated by Wallace- Tower. All else was hushed. 
The moon shone brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream," 

In this situation, the listening bard hears the 
" clanging sugh" of wings moving through the 
air, and speedily he perceives two beings, reared, 
the one on the Old, the other on the New Bridge, 
whose form and attire he describes, and whose 
conversation with each other he rehearses. 
These genii enter into a comparison of the re- 
spective edifices over which they preside, and af- 
terwards, as is usual between the old and young, 
compare modern characters and maimers witk 
those of past times. They differ, as may be ex< 



ide^navemenL 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



91 



pected, and ta*iit and scold each other in broad 
Scotch. This conversation, which is certainly 
humorous, may be considered as a proper busi- 
ness of the poem. As the debate runs high, and 
threatens serious consequences, all at once it is 
interrupted by a new scene of wonders : 



all before their sight 



A fairy train appear'd in order bright ; 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danced ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced ; 
Thev footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The inf int ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobled Bards heroic ditties sung." 



* The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of other allegorical be- 
ings, among whom are the four seasons, Rural 
Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, 
From simple Catnne, their long-loved abode : 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a haxel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
riie broken iron instrument: of Death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kin- 
dling wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
displays various and jjowerful talents, and may 
■erve to illustrate the genius of Burns. In par- 
ticular, it aflFords a striking instance of his being 
carried beyond his original purpose by the pow- 
2rs of imagination. 

In Fergussou's poem, the Plainstnnes and 
Causeway contrast the characters of the differ- 
ent persons who walked upon them. Burns 
probably conceived, that, by a dialogue between 
the Old and New Bridge, he might form a hu- 
morous contrast between ancient and modern 
manners in the town of Ayr. Such a dialogue 
could only be supposed to pass in the stillness of 
aight ; and this led our poet into a description 
of a midnight scene, which excited in a high 
degree the powers of his imagination. Dunnj,- 
the whole dialogue the scenery is present to his 
fancy, and at length it suggests to him a fairy 
dance of aerial beings, under the beams of the 
moon, by which the wrath of the Genii of the 
Briffs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this poem 
are, it is not an incongruity that displeases; and 
we have only to regret that tbe poet did not be- 
llow a little pains in making the figures more 
jorrect, and io smoothing the versification. 

The e;)istle8 of Burns, in which ncav be in- 



cbi'lpd his Dedication to G. H. Esc discover 
like his other writings, the powers of a superior 
understanding. They display deep insight into 
human nature, a gay and happy strai-i of reflec* 
tion. great independence of sentiment, and ge- 
nerosity of heart. The HitUoiveen of Burns is 
free from every objection. It is interesting not 
merely from its humorous description of manners, 
but as it records the spells and charms used oa 
the celebration of a festival, now, even in Scot- 
land, falling into neglect, but which was once 
observed over the greater part of Britain and 
Ireland. These charms are supposed to afford 
an insight into futurity, especially on the sub- 
ject of marriage, the most interesting event of 
rural life. In the Halloween, a female, in per- 
forming- one of the spells, has occasion to go out 
by moonlight to dip her shift-sleeve into a stream 
rmining toward.'^ the South. It was not ne- 
cessary for Burns to give a description of this 
stream. But it was the character of his ardent 
mind to pour forth not merely what the occasion 
required, but what it admitted ; and the temp- 
tation to describe so beautiful a natural object 
by moonlight, was not to be resisted — 

" Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
As through the glen it wimpi't ; 
Whyles round the rocky scar it strays; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickermg dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 
Beneath the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect 
will allow this to be one of the finest instances 
of description which the records of poetry afford. 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in 
rural poetry of a serious nature. Burns excelled 
equally as in that of a humorous kind, and, using 
less of the Scottish dialect in his serious poems, 
he becomes more generally mt* 'iigibie. It is dif- 
ficult to decide whether the Addicss to a Mouse 
whose nest was turned up with the plough, should 
be considered as serious or comic. Be this as 
it may, the poem is one of the happiest and 
most finished of his productions. If we smile 
at the " bickering brattle" of this little flying 
animal, it is a smile of tenderness and pity. 
The descriptive part is admirable : the moral re- 
flections beautiful, and arising directly out of the 
occasion; and in the conclusion there is a deep 
melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and dread, 
that arises to the sublime. The Address to a 
Mountain Daisy, turned down with the plough^ 
is a j)oem of the same nature, though somewhat 
inferior in point of originality, as well as in the 
interest produced. To extract out of incidenta 
so common, and seemingly so trivial as these, 
so tine a train of sentiment and imagery, is th« 
surest proof, as well as the most brilliant triumph, 
of original genius. The Vision, in two canto^ 
from which a beautiful extract is taken by Mr 



92 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



Mackenzie^ ^n the 9''tli number of the Lnuncier, 
is a poem of great and various excellence. The 
opening, in which the poet describes his own 
state of mind, retiring in the evening, wearied, 
from the labours of the day, to moralize on his 
conduct and prospects, is truly interesting. The 
chamber, if we may so term it, in which he sits 
down to muse, is an exquisite painting : — 

•• There, lanely, by the ingle cheek, 
I sat and eyed the spewing reek. 
That fiird wi' hoast-provoking smeek 

That auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons sqi>eak 

About the riggin. 

To reconcile to our imagination the entrance 
of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, 
required the powers of Burns — be, however, suc- 
ceeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, atti- 
tude, and dress, unlike those of other spiritual 
oeings, are distinctly portrayed. To the painting 
on her mantle, on which is depicted the most 
striking scenery, as well as the most distinguished 
characters, of his native country, some exceptions 
may be made. The mantle of Coila, like the cup 
of Thyrsis, * and the shield of Achilles, is too 
much crowded with figures, and some of the ob- 
jects represented upon it are scarcely admissible, 
according to the princij)les of design. The ge- 
neious temperament of Burns led him into these 
exuberances. In his second edition he enlarged 
the number of figures originally introduced, that 
he might include objects to which he was at- 
tached by sentiments of afi^ection, gratitude, or 
patriotism. The second Duan, or canto of this 
poem, in which Coila describes her own nature 
and occ'ipations, particularly her SHperintendence 
of his infant srenius, and in which she reconciles 
him to the character of a bard, is an elevated and 
solemn strain of poetry, ranking in all respects, 
excepting the harmony of numbers, with the 
higher productions of the English muse. The 
concluding stanza, compared with that already 
quoted, will show to what a height Bums rises 
in this poem, from the DoJnt at which he set 
out — 

" And wear thou this — she solemn said. 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passmg thougnt, she fled 

In light away." 

!n various poems Burns has exhibited the pic- 
ture of a mind under the deep impressions of 
real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to Ruin, 
Despondency, and Winter, a IHrge, are of this 
character. In the first of these poems the eighth 
«tanza, which describes a sleepless night from 
anguish of mind, is particularly striking. Burns 
often indulge! in those melancholy views of the 



See the first Idyllium of Theocritus. 



nature and condition of man, which are so coik 
genial to the temperament of sensibility. Tht 
poem entitled Man was made to Mourn, aifordi 
an instance of this kind, and The Wnter Night 
is of the same description. The las ' is highly 
characteristic, both of the temper of n\ind, and 
of the condition of Burns. It begins with a 
description of a dreadful storm on a night in 
winter. The poet represents himself as lying in 
bed, and listening to its howling. In this situ- 
ation, he naturally turns his thoughts to the 
ourie * Cattle, and the >>illj/f Sheep, exposed to 
all the violence of the tempest. Having lament- 
ed their fate, he proceeds in th<t following : — 

" Ilk happing bird — wee helpless thing ! 
That in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing^ 

An* close thy e'e? 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to 
his mind ; and as the midnight moon, " muf- 
fled with clouds," qasts her dreary light on hi? 
window, thoughts of a darker and more me- 
lancholy nature crowd upon him. In this state 
of mind, he hears a voice pouring through the 
gloom, a solemn and plaintive .strain of retlec- 
tion. The mourner compares the fury of the 
elements with that of man to his brotht r maa, 
and finds the ft)rmer light in the balance. 

" See stern Oppression's iron grtp, 

Or mad Ambition's gory hand. 
Sending, like bluod-houiids from the slip, 

Woe, want, and murder, o'er the land." 

He pursues this train of reflection through e 
variety of particulars, in the course of which he 
introduces the following animated apostrophe:— 

" O ye ! who sunk in beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a mouient, on his wretched fate. 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
lU-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays him down tc 
sleep, 
Wliile thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap.' 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
this poem is noble, though the execution is un- 
equal, and the versification is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, Tk4 
Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to 
the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of Fergui 
son evidently suggested the plan of this poem, 
as has been already mentioned ; but after tht 
plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely to hii 



♦ Ourie, out-lying. Ourie Cattle, Cattle that are uiv 
housed all winter. 

t Silly is in this, as in otn«r phees, a term of coiv 
passion and endearment. 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



9S 



own powers tor the execution. Fergusson's 
poem is certainly very beautiful. It has all the 
charms which depend on rural characters and 
manners happily portrayed, and exhibited under 
cii cumstances highly grateful to the imagination. 
The Farmer^s Ingle begins with describing the 
return of evening. The toils of the day are over, 
and the farmer retires to his comfortable fire- 
side. The reception which he and his men-ser- 
vants receive from the careful house-wife, is 
pleasingly described. After their supper is over, 
they begin to talk on the rural events of the day. 

" 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock wcioM Jenny here to be liis bride ; 

And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
L'pon the cutty-stool was forced to ride. 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. 

The " Guidame" is next introduced as forming 
a circle round the fire, in the midst of her grand- 
children, and while she spins from the rock, 
and the spindle plays on her *' russet lap," she 
is relating to the young ones tales of witches and 
ghosts. The poet exclaims, 

** O mock na this my friends ! but rather mourn. 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 

Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return. 

And dim our dulef-:' days wi' bairnly fear ; 

The mind's aye cradTd when the ^rawe is near." 

In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the 
fatigues of the day, stretches himself at length 
on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, which ex- 
tends on cne side of the fire, and the cat and 
hdu.-e-dog leap U{)on it to receive his cares? ;s. 
Here, resting at his ease, he gives his directions 
to his men-servants for the succeeding day. 
The house-wife follows his example, and gives 
her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil 
in the cruise begins to fail ; the fire runs low ; 
sleep steals on his rustic group ; an'l they move 
off to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The poet 
concludes by bestowing his blessing oa the 
" h'jsbandman and all his tribe." 

Thii* is an original and truly interesting pas- 
toral. It possesses every thing required in this 
species of composition. We might have perhaps 
laid, every thing that it admits, had not Bums 
written his Cotter's Saturday Niyht 

The cottager returning from his labours, has 
ao servants to accompany him, to partake of his 
fare, or to receive his instructions. The circle 
which le joins, is composed of his wife and chil- 
dren only ; and if it admits of less variety, it af- 
fords an opportunity for representing scenes that 
more strongly interest the affections. The 
rounger children running to meet him, and 
clambering round hLs knee ; the elder, returning 
from their weekly lal)our9 with the neighbouring 
^rmers, dutifully depositing their littie gains 
Vith their parents, and receiving theii father's 
Dlessing and instructicas ; the incidents of the 
courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughcel , " wo- 



man grown," are circumstances of i:he most in- 
teresting kind, which are most happily delineat. 
ed ; and after their frugal supper, the represen- 
tation of these humbler cottagers forming a wide* 
circle round their hfctrth, and uniting in the 
worship of God, is a picture the most deeply af- 
fecting of any which the rural muse has ever 
presented to the view. Burns was admirably 
adapted to this delineation. Like all men of 
genius he was of the temperament of devotion, 
and the powers of memory co-operated in this 
instance with the sensibility of his heart, and 
the fervour of his imagination. The Cotter's 
Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is so- 
lemn and devotional, and rises at length in \ 
strain of grandeur and sublimity, which modern 
poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments 
of patriotism with which it concludes, corres. 
pond with the rest of the poem. In no age or 
country have the pastoral muses breathed such 
elevited accents, if the Messiah of Pope be ex- 
cepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only. 
It is to be regretted that ]3urns did not employ 
his genius on other subjects of the same nature, 
which the manners and customs of the Scottish 
peasantry would have ampljr supplied. Such 
poetry is not to be estimated by the de2;ree of 
pleasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into 
the heart, and is calculated, far beyond any other 
human means, for giving permanence to the 
scenes and the characteis it so exquisitely de- 
sciibes. 

B^ifore we conclude, it will be proper to of- 
fer a few observations on the lyric productions 
of Burns. His compositions of this kind are 
chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, 
and always after the model of the Scottish aongs, 
on the general character and moral influence oi 
which, some observations have already been of- 
fered. We may hazard a few more particular 
remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland 
it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no where 
imitated them, a circumstance to be regretted, 
since in this species of composition, from its ad- 
mitting the more terrible, as well as the softer 
graces of poetry, he was eminently qualified to 
have ex(;elled. The Scottish songs which ser- 
ved as a model to Burns, are almost without 
exception pastoral, or rather rural. Such of 
them as are comic, frequently treat of a rustic 
courtship, or a country wedding ; or they de- 
scribe the differences of opinion which arise in 
married life. Burns has imitated this species, 
and surpassed his models. The song beginning 
*' Husband, husband, cease your strife," may be 
cited in support of this observation.* His otl er 



♦ The dialogues between husbands and their wives 
which form the subjects of the Scottish songs, are al 
most all lulicrous and satirical, and in these contesta 
the lady is generally victorious. From the coliectioni 
of Mr. Piiikerton, we find that the comic museof Scot- 
land deljpnted m such representations from very early 
times, in ner rude dramatic eSbrts, as well as in he« 
rustic soii£S. 



H 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTiSIi POETRY. 



coirnc songs are of equ.il iiicrir. la the rural 
6ori<rR of Scothitxi, u'hefher Inimoriius or ten- 
dei, the sen1;iirients are ^iveii to |iar'tioiilar cha- 
racters, and very generally, the incidents are 
referred to particular scenery. This last cir- 
cumstance niiv be considered as a distingnish- 
iing; feature of the Scottish sonos, and on it a 
cousiderabie part of their attiaction depend'*. 
On all occasions tlie sentiments, of whatever 
nature, are delivered in the character of the per- 
son principa.ly interested. If love he described. 
it is nut -r's it IS oitserved, but as it is felt ; and 
the passion is delineated under a particular as- 
pect. Neltiier is it the fiercer impulses of de- 
sire that are expressed, as in the celebrated ode 
of Sappho, the ni<»del of so many modern songs ; 
but those gentler emotions of tenderness and af- 
fect'on, which do not entirely absorb the lover ; 
but permit him to associate his emotions with 
the charms of external nature, and breathe the 
accents of purity and innocence, as well as of 
love. In these respects the love-songs of Scot- 
land are honourably distinguished from the 
most admired classical compositions of the same 
kind ; and by such associations, a variety as 
well as liveliness, is given to the representation 
of this passion, which are not to be found in 
the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of 
any other nation. Many of the love-songs of 
Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship ; 
many may be considered as invocations from 
iovers to their mistresses. On such occasions 
a degree of interest and realily is given to the 
sentiment, by the spot destined to these happy 
interviews being particularized. The lovers 
perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, or 
on the Banks of Ettrick ; the nymphs are in- 
voked to wander among the wilds of Roslin or 
the Woods of Invcrmay. Nor is the spot mere- 
ly pointed out ; the scenery is often described 
as well as the character, so as to represent a 
complete picture to the fancy. * Thus the 



po>.ri-y, 02 
poet 



maxiui of [lorace, >it. pi-'fii-n !■.•<," 
Iv ohsiTved l.v i!u-e r-i-t ,• ..,.■•!. 
(^1 l)v the -..iir(.. irnpKise .^f r:;iMi.v 
whirh iiitliirrici'd v.i.e Ur'.-i oi .• 
whu>e exam^io the pr<';'t'|)t if tii..- Iwi,- 
v\',is ;)erha,)s fi,ii:i'i>'.i, \\, t'l^s in .,ui-i t!ie iiiia- 
trination is (•niu'oyf'' to i:iri--fst the f-'elings. 
Wiien \v(' (l(i lic.t coiii-'.'iv,- 'i si-'n.tiy we do not 
synipatliizf sleepiy lu any Iiu.u.ni MlK-ctiou ; and 
we conceive nothing in the abstract. A!)stri.e- 
tion, so issefiil in morals, ;ind so essential in 
science, must be abiudoned when the heart is 
to be subdued by tiie p<uvers of poetry or of 
eloquence. The l)aids of a luder condition of 
society paint individual objects ; and hence^ 
among other causes, the easy access they obtain 
to the heart. Generalization is the voice of 
poets, whose learning overpowers their genius ; 
of poets of a refined and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much 
in the Scottish songs, whne it contributes great- 
ly to the interest they excite, also shows that 
they have originated among a people in the ear- 
lier stages of society. Where this form of com- 
position appears in songs of a modern date, it 
indicates that they have been written after the 
ancient model. * 

The Scottish songs are of very unequal poe 
tical merit, and this inequality often extends to 
the different parts of the same song. Those that 
are humorous, or characteristic of manners, 
have in general the merit of copying nature ; 
those that are serious are tender and often 
sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high 
powers of imagination, which indeed do not 



* Oi>e or two examples may illustrate this observa- 
tion. A Scottish song, written about a hundred years 
ago, begins thus: — 

" On Ettrick Banks, on a summer's night 
At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame 
I met my lassie, braw and tight. 
Come 'wading barefoot a' her lane. 

My heart grew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily-neck, 
An<i kissed and clasped there fu* lang— 

My words they were na mony feck." 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate 
the language he employed with his Lowland maid to 
win her heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to 
the Highland hills, there to share his fortune. The 
genriments are in thi-mselves beautiful. But we feel i 
them witli double force, while we conceive Uiat they 
were addressed by a lover to his mistress, whom he 
met all alone on a suminer's fcvening, by the b.anks of 
a beautiful stream, which some of us ^tave actually 
Been, and which all of us can paint to our imagination. 
Let us take another example. It is now a nymph that 
ipeaks. Here how she expresses herself — 

"How blythe each mom was I to see 
My swain come o'er rh*» hill 1 



He skipt the bum, and flew to me, 
I met him with good will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Na- 
ture. W see a shepherdess standing by the side of a 
brook, watching her lover, as he descends the opiuisite 
hill. He bounds lightly along; he appro-ich^s nearer 
and nearer; he leaps the brook, and flies into her 
arms. In the recollection of these ciretmnstances, the 
surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the fair 
mourner, and she bursts into the following exclama- 
tion : — 

" O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom. 
The broom of the Cowden-knowes ! 
I wish I were with my dear swain, ' 

With his pipe and his ewes;" 

Thus the individual spot of this happy interview is 
pointed out, and the picture is completed. 

* That the dramatic form of writing charactenzej 
productions of an early, or what amounts to the same, 
of a rude stage of society, may be illustrated by a re- 
ference to the most ancient compositions that we know 
of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the writing^ of Homer, 
The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scottish 
ballads, even in narration, whenever the situations de. 
scribed become interesting. This sometimes produces 
a very striking effect, of which an instance may be 
given from the ballad of Edom 0' Gordon, a composi- 
tion apparently of the sixteenth century. The story 
of the ballad is shortly this:— The Castle of Rhodes 
in the absence of its lord, is attacked by the robbei 
Edom Gordon. Th« lady stands on her defence, beat* 
oft" the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who in his rage 
orders the castle to be set on fire. That his orders art 
carried into effect, we learn from the expostuiatioii ol 
the Uidy, wIk) ia repre^ittited as standing on the battle 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



9£ 



easily find a place in this species of composition. 
The alliance of the words of the Scottish songs 
«pith the music has in some instances given lo 
the former a popularity, which otherwise they 
would never have obtained. 

The association of the words and the music 
of these songs with the more beautiful parts of 
the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same 
effect. It has given them not merely popularity, 
but permanence ; it has imparted to the works 
of man some portion of the durability of the 
works of nature. If, from our imperfect expe- 
rience of the past, we may judge with any con- 
fidence respecting the future, songs of this de- 
Bcription are of all others the least likely to die. 
In the changes of language they may no doubt 
Buffer change ; but the associated strain of sen- 
timent and of music will perhaps survive, while 
the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yar- 
row, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowden- 
Knowes. 

:• The first attempts of Burns in song-writing 
were not vory successful. His habitual inatten- 
tion to the exactness of rhymes, and to the har- 
mony of numbers, arising probably from the 
models on which his versification was formed, 
were faults likely to appear to more advantage 
ill this species of composition, than in any 
other ; and we may also remark, that the 
strength of his imagination, and the exuberance 
of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained 
within the limits of gentleness, delicacy and 
tenderness, which seem to be assigned to the 
love-songs of his nation. Burns was better 
adapted by nature for following in such compo- 
eitions the model of the Grecian than of the 
Scottish muse. By study and practice he how- 
ever surmounted all these obstacles. In his 
earlier songs there is some ruggedness ; but this 
gradually disappears in his successive efforts ; 
and some of his later compositions of this kind 
may be compared, in polished delicacy, with the 
finest songs in our language, while in the elo- 
quence of sensibility they surpass them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he fol- 
lowed and excelled, aie often dramatic, and for 
the greater part amatory j and the beauties of 
rural nature are every where associated with 
the passions and emotions of the mind. Dis- 



sents and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is in- 
terrupted— 

" O then bespake her little son. 

Sate on his nourice knee ; 
Says ' mither dear, gi' owre this house. 

For the ret-k it smithers me.' 
•' I wad gje a' my gowd, ray childe, 

Sae wad 1 a* my fee. 
For ae blast o' the westlin wind. 

To blaw the re«k frae thee," 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-songs, 
*nd the dramatic form which pre^'ails so generally in 
them, probably arises from their beinj^ the deswntlants 
and sijcces-sorsof the ancieni ballads. In the beautiful 
mcaern song of Mary of CaxtleCary, the dramatic 
form has a very happy diTcet. The same may be said 
of Donald and Flora, and Come under my PUiidie, by 
the sw'ns author. Mr. Macniei. 



daining to copy the works of others, he has no*, 
like some poets of great name, admitted into his 
descriptions exotic imagery. The landscapes 
he has painted, and the objects with which they 
are embellished, are, in every single instance, 
such as are to be found in his own country. Ic 
a mountainous region, especially when it is 
comparatively rude and naked, the most beauti- 
ful scenery will always be found in the valleys, 
and on the banks of the wooded streams. Such 
scenery is peculiarly interesting at the close of ik 
summer day. As we advance northwards, the 
number of the days of summer, indeed, dimi- 
nishes ; but from this cause, as well as from the 
mildness of the temperature, the attraction in- 
creases, and the summer night becomes still 
more beautiful. The greater obliquity of the 
sun's path in the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful 
season of twilight to the midnight hours, and 
the shades of the evening seem to mingle with 
the morning's dawn. The rural poets of Scot- 
land, as may be expected, associate in their 
songs the expression of passion, with the most 
beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest season 
of the year, and generally in those hours of the 
evening when the beauties of nature are most 
interesting. 

To all these adventitious circumstances, on 
which so much of the effect of poetry depends, 
great attention is paid by Burns. There is 
scarcely a single song of his in which particula. 
scenery is not described, or allusions ma«le tr 
natural objects, remarkable for beauty or inte- 
rest ; and though his descriptions are not so full 
as are sometimes met with in the older Scottish 
songs, they are in the highest degree appropriate 
and interesting. Instances in proof of this 
might be quoted from the Lea Rig, Highland 
Mary, the Soldier's Return, Logan Water, 
from that beautiful pastoral, Bonnie Jean, and 
a great number of others. Occasionally the 
force of his getiius carries him beyond the usual 
boundaries of Scottish song, and the natural 
objects introduced have more of the character 
of sublimity. An instance of this kind is no- 
ticed by Mr. Syme, and many others might b^ 
adduced. 

" Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the wave'g dashing 
roar ; 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid m 
wmter night, the " wan moon" is described at 
" setting behind the white waves ;" in another, 
the " storms" are apostrophized, and command- 
ed to " rest in the cave of their slumbers."' Oa 
several occasions, the genius of Burns loses sight 
entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a strain 
of uniform .'^ubiimity. Instances of this kind 
appear in Libtrty, a Viisiu7i, and in his two 



96 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY 



trar-soners, Hrvce. to his troops, and the Song 
of Death. These hist are of a description of 
which we have no other in our language. The 
martial songs of our nation are not military, but 
naval. If we were to seek a comparison of 
these songs of Burns with others of a similar 
nature, we must have recourse to the poetry of 
ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to the 
songs of Scotland. In his compositions, the 
poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the mu' 
sic Fie has enlarged the poetical scenery of his 
country. Many of her rivers and mountains, 
formerly unknown to the muse, are now conse- 
crated by his immortal verse. The Doon, the 
Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, will 
in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the 
Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their 
borders will be trode with new and superior 
emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were 
written after he removed into the county of 
Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits 
formed in early life, he usually composed while 
walking in the open air. When engaged 
writing these songs, his favourite walks were 
in the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, 
particularly near the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; 
and this beautiful scenery he has very happily 
described under various aspects, as it appears 
during the softness and serenity of evening, and 
during the stillness and solemnity of the moon- 
light night. 

There is no species of poetry, the productions 
of the drama not excepted, so much calculated 
to influence the morals, as well as the happiness 
of a people, as those popular verses which are 
associated with the national airs, and which 
being learnt in the years of infancy, make a 
deep impression on the heait before the evolu- 
.ion of the powers ol the understanding. The 
compositions of Burns, of this kind, now pre- 
sented in a collected form to the world, make a 
most important additi(>n to the popular songs of 
his nation. Like all his other writings, they 
exhibit independence )f sentiment ; they are 
peculiarly calculated to increase those ties which 
bind generous hearts to their native soil, and to 
the domestic circle of their infancy : and to 
cherish those sensibilities which, under due re- 
striction, form the purest happiness of our na- 
ture. If in his unguarded moments he com- 
posed some songs on which this praise cannot 
be bestowed, let us hope that they will speedily 
be forgotten. In several instances, where Scot- 
tish airs were allied to words objectionable in 
point of delicacy, Burns has substituted others 
of a purer character. On such occasions, with- 
fmt changing the subject, he has changed the 
sentiments. A proof of this may be seen in the 
air of John Anderson my Joe, which is now 
united to words that breathe a strain of conjugal 
tenderness, that is as highly moral as it is ex- 
quisitely affecting. 

Paw circumiP^Hnces could afford a more strik- 



ing proof of the strength of Burns's genius, thai 
the general circulation of his poems in England) 
notwithstanding the dialect in whic \ the great- 
er part are written, and which mu^ht be sup- 
po-^ed r.i render them here uncouth or obscure. 
In some instances he has used this dialect on 
subjects of a sublime nature ; but in general he 
confines it to sentiments or description of a 
tender or humorous kind ; and, where he rises 
into elevation of thought, he assumes a purer 
English style. The singular faculty he pos- 
sessed of mingling in the same poem humorous 
sentiments and descriptions, with imagery of a 
sublime and terrific nature, enabled him to use 
this variety of dialect on some occasions with 
striking effect. His poem of Tarn o' Shunter 
affords an instance of this. There he passes 
from a scene of the lowest humour, to situations 
of the most awful and terrible kind. He is a 
musician that runs from the lowest to the 
highest of his keys ; and the use of the Scottish 
dialect enables him to add two additional notes 
to the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabi- 
tants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- 
proximate in their speech to the pure English 
standard ; and this has made it difficult to write 
in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in thena 
some feelings of disgust, which in England are 
scarcely felt. An Englishman who understands 
the meaning of the Scottish words, is not of- 
fended, nay, on certain subjects, he is perhaps 
pleased with the rustic dialect, as he may be 
with the Doric Greek of Theocri';us. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coun- 
try, if a man of education, and more especially 
if a literary character, has baniwhed such words 
from his writings, and has attempted to banish 
them from his speech ; and being accustomed 
to hear them from the vulgar daily, does not 
easily admit of their use in poetry, which re- 
quires a style elevated and ornamental. A dis- 
like of this kind is, however, accidental, not na- 
tural. It is of the species of disgust which we 
feel at seeing a female of high birth in the dress 
of a rustic ; which, if she be leally young and 
beautiful, a little habit will enable us to over- 
come. A lady who assumes such a dress puts 
her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re- 
jects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of fa- 
shion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace oJ 
'jlegant and flowing drapery ; but her native 
charms remain, the more striking, perhaps, be- 
cause the less adorned ; and to these she ti usta 
for fixing her empire on those aflections over 
which fashion has no sway. If sLe succeeds, a 
new association arises. The dress of the beau- 
tiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, and estab- 
lishes a new fashion for the young and the gay. 
And when, in after ages, the contemplative ob- 
server shall view her picture in the gallery thai 
contains the portraits of the beauties of succes- 
sive centuries, each in the dress of her respec- 
tive day, her drapery will not deviate, more 
than that of her rivals, fi- )m the standard of hit 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



91 



iMrte, and he will give the palm to her who ex- 
wls in the lineaments of nature. 

'^JJurns wrote professedly for the peasantry of 
his country, and by them their native dialect is 
universally relished. To a numerous class of 
the natives of Scotland of another description, 
it may also be considered as attractive in a dif- 
ferent point of view. Estranged from their 
native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the 
idiom of their country unites with the senti- 
ments and the descriptions on which it is em- 
ployed, to recall to their minds the interesting 
scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken many 
pleasing, many tender recollections. Literary 
men, residing at Edinburi;h or Aberdeen, can- 
not judge on this point for one hundred and 
fifty thousand of their expatriated countrymen. 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one spe- 
cies of poetry, the composition of songs, the taste 
of the public has been for some time reconciled. 
The dialect in question excels, as has aheady 
been observed, in the copiousness and exactness 
of it» terms for natural objects ; and in pastoral 
Of rural songs, it gives a Doric simplicity, which 
is very generally approved. Neither does the 
regret seem well founded which some persons of 
taste have expressed, that Burns used this dia- 
lect in so many other of his compositions. His 
declared purpose was to paint the manners of 
rustic life among his " humble comueers," and 
it is not easy to conceive, that this could have 
been done with equal humour and effect, if he 
had not adopted their idiom. There are some, 
indeed, who will think the subject too low for 
poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find 
their delicacie* consulted in many a polite and 
learned author; let them not seek for gratifica- 
tion in the rough and vigorous lines, in the un- 
bridled humour, or in the overpowering sensi- 
bility of this bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of Burns 
would be tui easy task. Many persons after- 
wards distinguished in literature, have been 
horn in as humble a situation of life ; but it 
«ou.d be difficiLt to find any other who while 



earning his subsistence by daily •2k>:ur, haa 
written verses which have attracted xad re- 
tained universal attention, and which are likely 
to give the author a permanent and distinguish- 
ed place among the followers of the muses. I( 
he is deficient in grace, he is distinguished for 
ease as well as energy ; and these are indica- 
tions of the higher order of genius. The father 
of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as ex- 
celling in strength, another in swiftness — to 
form his perfect warrior, these attributes are 
combined. Every species of intellectual supe- 
riority admits, perhaps, of a lirailar arrange- 
ment. One writer excels in force — another in 
ease ; he is superior to them both, in whom 
both these qualities are united. Of Homei 
himself it may be said, that like his own Achil- 
les, he surpasses his competitors in mobility as 
well as strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of his 
understanding, and in the sensibility of his 
heart ; and these will be found to infuse the 
living principle into all the works of genius 
which seem destined to immortality. His sen- 
sibility had an uncommon range. He was a- 
live to every species of emotion. He is one 
of the few poets that can be mentioned, who 
have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, 
and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the an- 
cients, and which in modern times is only due 
to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Vol- 
taire. To compare the writings of the Scottish 
peasant with the works of these giants in liter- 
ature, might appear presumptuous ; yet it may 
be asserted that he has displayed the foot of 
Hercules. How near he might have approach- 
ed them by proper culture, with lengthened 
years, and under happier auspices, it is not for 
us to calculate. But while we run over the 
melancholy story of his life, it is impossible not 
to he^ve a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; 
and as we survey the records of his mind, it ia 
easy to see, that out of such materials ha^e been 
reared the fairest and tho msst durable of thi 
manuwentt cf gemiu 



OB 



THE SONGS. 



The poetrj of Burns has been referred to as one of the causes which 
prevented the Scottish language from falling into disuse. It was beginning 
to be discontinued as vulgar, even as the medium of oral communication : 
and an obvious consequence of that state jf the public taste was, that the 
Scottish songs, sweetly pathetic and expressive as many of them are, were 
not fashionable, but rather studiously avoided. The publication of his 
poetry changed this taste. Burns, followed by Scott, not merely revived 
the use of their native tongue in their own country, but gave it a cur- 
rency in the polite world generally ; an effect which was greatly assisted by 
Burns's songs, and not a little by what he did for the songs of his prede- 
cessors. He was a most devoted admirer of the lyrical effusions of the 
olden time, and became a diligent collector of the ancient words, as well 
as of the sets of the music. His remarks, historical and anecdotic, upon 
the several songs, are amusing and instructive ; and where there were 
blanks to be supplied, he was ready as powerful at a refit. To do all this^ 
and at same time to double the stock of Scottish songs, was no small task ; 
and so well has it been executed, that in place of forming the amusement 
and delight of the Scots only, they have become a part, nay, have taken 
the lead, of the lyrical compositions used, and in fashion, throughout the 
British dominions. It is because of their intrinsic worth, as a branch of 
elegant amusement, that we have given the whole here, presented in two 
distinct parts : — The first part contains the songs before Burns, with the 
remarks, by which he has so felicitously illustrated them. — The second 
part is formed of his own songs, and which are now brought together, in 
place of being scattered over, and mixed with the prose pieces, as hereto- 
fore — The whole forming a complete collection of select Scottish SonySf 
such as cannot fail to be acceptable to the lovers »f good taste, and inno- 
cent amusement in every country. 

Lore. 



100 



SELECT 



SCOTTISH SONG& 



TxM poet thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop ; — * I 
nad an oJd grand- uncle, with whom my mo- 
iher lived awhile in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long 
blind ere he died ; during which time, his 
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
while my mother would sing the simple old 
song of The Life (ind Age of Man.* The 
song, as here given, was taken down from the 
recitation of the poet's mother, who had 
never seen a printed copy of it, — and had 
learned it from her mother in early youth.] 

THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN: 

OB, 

K SHOKT DESCRIPTION OF HIS NATURE, RISE 

AND FALL, ACCORDING TO THE TWELVE 

MONTHS OF THE Y2AR. 

Tune—" Isle of Kell." 

Upon the sixteen hunder year, 

of God and fifty three, 
Frae Chiist was born, that bought us deai,, 

as writings testifie ; 
On January the sixteenth day, 

as I did ly alone, 
^ith many a sigh and sob did say, 

Ah ! Man is made to moan. 

Dame Nature that excellent bride, 

did stand up me before, 
And said to me, thou must provide 

this life for to abhor : 
Thou seest what things are gone before, 

experience teaches thee ; 
Yet do not miss to remember this, 

that one day thou must die. 

Of all the creatures bearing life 

recall back to thy mind. 
Consider how they ebb and flow, 

each thing in their own kind ; 
Yet few of them have such a strain, 

as God hath given to thee ; 
Therefore this lesson keep in mind,— > 

lemember man to die. 



Man's course on earth will rep^et* 

if I have time and space ; 
It may be long, it may be short* 

as God hath giv'n him grace. 
His natur to the herbs compare, 

that in the ground ly dead ; 
And to each month add five year* 

and so we will procede. 

The first five years then of man's lifis 

compare to Januar ; 
In all that time but sturt and strife, 

he can but greet and roar. 
So is the fields of flowers all bare, 

by reason of the frost ; 
Kept in the ground both safe and aonaik 

not one of them is lost. 

So to years ten I shall speak then 

of Februar but lack ; 
The child is meek and weak of spir't, 

nothing can undertake : 
So all the flow'rs, for lack of show'rs, 

no springing up can make, 
Yet birds do sing and praise their king 

and each one choose their mate. 

Then in comes March, that noble arcOj 

with wholesome spring and air. 
The child doth spring to years fifteen, 

with visage fine and fair ; 
So do the flow'rs with softening show'f 

ay spring up as ,ve see ; 
Yet nevertheless remember this, 

that one day we must die. 

Then brave April doth sweetly smu^ 

the flow'rs do fair appear, 
The child is then become a man, 

to the age of twenty year ; 
If he be kind and well inclin'd, 

and brought up at the school. 
Then men may know if he foreshov 

a wise man or a fool. 

Then cometh May, gallant and gay, 
when frao'ant flow'rs do thrive. 



SONGS. 101 


The cKild Is then become a mao, 


His ears and e'en, and teeth of bane. 


of age twenty and five : 


uU these now do him fail ; 


And for his life doth seek a wife, 


Then may he say, both night and day, 


his life and yeais to spend ; 


that death shall him assail. 


Christ fironi above send peace and love, 




and grace unto the end ! 


And if there be, thro' natur stout. 




some that live ten years more ; 


Then coraeth June with pleasant tune, 


Or if he creepeth up and down. 


when fields with flow'rs are clad, 


till he comes to fourscore ; 


And Phoehiis bright is at his height, 


Yet all this time is but a line. 


all creatures then are glad : 


no pleasure can be see : 


Then he appears of thretty years. 


Then may he say, both night and day. 


with courage bold and stout ; 


have mercy, Lord, on me ! 


His nature so makes him to go, 




of death he hath no doubt. 


Thus have I shown you as I can, 




the course of all mens' life ; 


Then July comes with his hot climes. 


We will return where we began. 


and constant in his kind. 


but either sturt or strife : 


The man doth thrive to thirty-five. 


Dnme Memorie doth take her leave. 


and sober grows in mind ; 


she'll last no more, we see ; 


His children small do on him call. 


God grant that I may not you grieve, 


and breed him stUi t and strife ; 


Ye'll get nae mair of me. 


Then August old, both stout and bold, 




when flow'rs do stoutly stand ; 


BESS THE GAWK IE. 


So man appears to forty years, 




with wisdom and command ; 


This song shews that the Scottish Muses did 


And doth provide his house to guide. 


not aJl leave us when we lost R.imsiy iuid Os- 


children and familie ; 


wald,* as I have good reasod t i lit-.ieve that 


Yet do not miss t' remember this, 


the verses and music are both jjosr^T-or lo the 


that one day thou must die. 


days of these two gentlemen It is a lieuutiful 




song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have 


September then comes with his train. 


few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastora. 


and makes the flow'rs to fade ; 


of nature, that are equal to this. — Burns. 


Then man belyve is forty-five, 




grave, constant, wise, and staid. 
When he looks on, how youth is gone, 

and shall it no more see ; 
Then may he say, both night and da ', 


Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, 
Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, 
Where flocks do feed and herds do stray, 
And sport awhile wi' Jamie ? 


have mercy, Lord, on me ! 


Ah na, lass, I'll no gang there, 




Nor about Jamie tak nae care. 


October's blast comes in with boast. 


Nor about Jamie tak nae care. 


and makes the flow'rs to fall ; 


For he's taen up wi' Maggy ! 


Then man appears to fifty years, 


* 


old age (loth on him call : 
The almond tree doth flourish hie, 


For hark, and I will tell you, lass. 
Did I not see your Jamie pass. 


and pale grows man we see ; 


Wi" meikle gladness in his face, 


Then it is time to use this line, 
remember, man, to die. 


Out o'er the muir to Maggy. 
I wat he gae her mony a kiss, 


November air maketh fields bare 
of flow'rs, of grass, and corn ; 


And Maggy took them ne'er amiss ; 
'Tween ilka smack, pleas'd her with this, 
That Bess was but a gawkle. 


Then man arrives i«i fifty-five. 




and sick both e'en and morn : 


For when a civil kiss I seek, 


Loins, legs, and thighs, without disease, 


She turns her head, and thraws her cheek, 


makes him to sigh and say. 




Ah ! Christ on high have mind on me, 






and learn me for to die ! 


• Oswald was a music-se!ler in London, about th« 




year 1750. He published a large collection of Scottish 


December fell baith sharp and snell. 


times, which he called The Caledonlim Pocket Compa- 
nion. Mi. Tytler observes, that his genius in compo- 


makes flow'rs creep in the ground ; 


sition, joined to his taste in the performance of .Scot- 


Then man's threescore, both sick and »ore, 
DO soundness in hiui found. , 


tish music, was natural and pathetic. This song hai 
bf;e!i imputed to a clergyman— Mr. Morehead oi Urt 
m Galloway. 

i 



J 02 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Ami for an lioiir she*!! scarcely speak ; 

Who'd not call her a gawkie? 
But sure my M;iggie has inair sense, 
She'll gie a score without offence; 
Now gie me ane unto the mense, 

And ye shall be my dawtie. 

O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane, 
But I will never stand for ane, 
Or twa, when we do meet again ; 

Sae ne'er think me a gawkie. 
Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be. 
Sic thoughts as these are far from Lie, 
Or ony that sweet face that see, 

E'er to think thee a gawkie. 

But whisht ! — nae mair of this we'll speak, 
For yonder Jamie does us meet ; 
Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, 
I trow he likes the gawkie. 

dear bess, 1 hardly knew, 

When I came by, your gown sae new, 

1 think you've got it wat wi' dew ; 

Quoth she, that's like a gawkie : 

It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, 
And ril get gowns when it is gane, 
Sae you may gang the gate you came, 

And tell it to your dawtie. 
The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek ; 
He cry'd, O cruel maid, but sweet, 
If I should gang anither gate, 

I ne'er could meet my dawtie. 

The lasses fast frae him they flew. 
And left poor Jamie sair to rue, 
That ever Maggy's face he knew, 

Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. 
As they went o'er the muir they sang ; 
The hills and dales with echoes rang. 
The hills and dales with echoes rang. 

Gang -I'er the muir to Maggy ' 



FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. 

(original song of OH OPEN THE DOOR, 

LORD GREGORY). 

It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, 
Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and 
Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song 
or tune which, from the title, &c. can be gues- 
sed to belong to, or be the production of these 
counties. This, I conjecture, is one of these 
very few ; as the balLd, which is a long one, 
is called both by tradition and in printed collec- 
tions, The Lass o' Lochroyan, which I take to 
be Lochroyaii in Galloway. — Burns. 

Sweet Annie built a bonnie ship, 

And set her on the sea ; 
The sails were a' of the damask silk, 

The mastd of^si'ver free. 



The gladsome waters sung below, 

And the sweet wind sung above- 
Make way for Annie of Lochroyan^ 
She comes to seek her love. 

A gentle wind came with a sweep, 
And stretched her silken sail, 

When up there came a reaver rude» 
With many a shout and hail : 

touch her not, my mariners a'. 
Such loveliness goes free ; 

Make way foi- Annie of Lochroyan, 
She seeks Lord Gregorie. 

The moon looked out with all her stai% 

The ship moved merrily on. 
Until she came to a castle high. 

That all as diamonds shone : 
On every tower there streamed a light, 

On the middle tower shone three- 
Move for that tower my mariners a'. 

My love keeps watch for me. 

She took her young son in her arms, 

And on the deck she stood — 
The wind rose with an angry gust, 

The sea wave wakened rude. 
Oh open the door. Lord Gregory, love ; 

Oh open and let me in ; 
The sea foam hangs in my yellow hair* 

The surge dreeps down my chin. 

All for thy sake, Lord Gregory, love, 

I have sailed the perilous way. 
And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts 

And he'll be dead ere day. 
The foam hangs on the topmost clifF, 

The fires run on the sky, 
And hear you not your true love's voiok 

And her sweet baby's cry ? 

Fair Annie turned her round about. 

And tears began to flow — 
May never a baby suck a breast 

Wi' a heart sae fou of woe. 
Take down, take down that silver maar 

Set up a mast of tree. 
It does nae become a forsaken dame 

To sail sae royallie. 

Oh read my dream, my mother, deal 

I heard a sweet babe greet. 
And saw fair Annie of Lochroyan 

Lie cauld dead at my feet. 
And loud and loud his mother laugned-: 

Oh sights mair sure than sleep, 

1 saw fair Annie, and heard her voiof^ 

And her baby wail and weep. 

O he went down to yon sea side 

As fast as he could fare. 
He saw fafi- Annie and her sweet babt. 

But the wild wind tossed them sair ; 
And hey Annie, and how Annie, 

And Annie winna ye l^de ? 



SONGS 



lOS 



But ave the mair he called A*inle, 
The broader giew the tide. 

And hey Annie, and how Annie, 

Dear Annie speak to me, 
But aye the louder he cried Annie, 

The louder roared the sea. 
The wind waxed loud, the sea grew rough, 

The ship sunk nigh the shore, 
Fair Annie floated through the foam, 

But the baby rose no more. 

O first he kissed her cherry cheek, 

And then he kissed her chin, 
\nd syne he kissed her rosy lips. 

But there was nae breiith within. 
O my love's love was true as light, 

As meek and sweet was she — 
My mother's hate was strong as death. 

And fiercer than the sea. 



ROSLIN CASTLE. 

These beautiful verses were the production 
of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. 
Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec« 
dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. I 
do not know who was the author of the second 
song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing his- 
♦• iy of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald ,- 
rut in Oswald's own colIectioH of Scots tunes, 
\«here he affixes an asterisk to those he himself 
composed, he does not make the least claim to 
the tune. — Burns. 

'TwA3 in that season of the year, 
When all things gay and sweet appear, 
That Colin, with the morning ray, 
Arose and sung his rural lay. 
Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung, 
The hills and dales with Nanny rung ; 
While Roslin Castle heard the swain, 
And echoed back the cheerful strain. 

Awake, sweet Muse ! the breathing spring, 
With rapture warms ; awake and sing ! 
Awake and join the vocal throng. 
Who hail the morning with a song ; 
To Nanny raise the cheezful lay, 
O ! bid her haste and come away ; 
In sweetest smiles herself adorn, 
And add new graces to the mom ! 

O, hark, my love ! on ev'ry spray, 
Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay ; 
Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng, 
A-nd love inspires the melting song : 
Then let ray raptur'd notes arise, 
For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes •, 
And love my rising bosom warms, 
A.nd fills my soul with sweet alarm* 



O ! com*, my love ! thy Colin's lay 

With rapture calls, O come away ! 

Come, while the Muse this wreath shall twiiM 

Around that modest brow of thine ; 

O ! hither haste, and with thee bring 

That beauty blooming like the spring ; 

Those graces that divinely shine. 

And charm this ravish'd breast of mine 1 



SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN? 
QUO' SHE. 

This song for genuine humour in the verseti 
and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled 
I take it to be very old. — Burns. 

Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo' she. 
Saw ye Johnnie cummin, 

saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she ' 
Saw ye Johnnie cummin, 

Wi' his blue bonnet on his head. 
And his doggie runnin, quo' she 
And his doggie riinnin ? 

Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she • 

Fee him, father, fee him : 
For he is a gallant lad, 

And a weel doin' ; 
And a' the wark about the house 

Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' lilt 

Wi' me when I see him. 

What will I do wi' him, hussy ? 

What will I do wi' him ? 
He's ne'er a sark upon his back, 

And I hae nane to gie him. 

1 hae twa sarks into my kist, 

And ane o' them I'll gie him. 
And for a mark of mair fee, 

Dinna stand wi' him, quo' sae ; 
Dinna stand wi' him. 

For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she ; 

Weel do I lo'e him : 
O fee him, father, fee him, quo* she , 

Fee him, father, fee him ; 
He'll baud the pleugh, thrash i' the baia 

And lie wi' me at e'en, quo' she ; 

Lie wi' me at e'en. 



CLOUT THE CALDRON 

A TRADITION is mentioned in t^je Bee, that 
the second Bishop Chisholm, of Di/.ablane, used 
to say, that if he were going to be hanged, no- 
thing would soothe his mind so much by the 
way, as to hear Clout the Caldron played. 



(U4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



T have met witl another tradition, that the 
old song to this tune, 

Hae ye ony pots or pans, 
Or onie broken chanlers, 

was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in 
the Cavalier times ; and alluded to an amour he 
had, while under hiding^, in the disguise of an 
itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the 
name of 

The Blacksmith and his Apron, 

tvhich from the rythym., seems to have been a 
'ine of some old song to the tune. — Burns. 

Have you any pots or pans, 

Or any broken chandlers ? 
I am a tinkler to my trade. 

And newly come frae Flanders, 
As scant of siller as of grace. 

Disbanded, we've a bad rnn ; 
Gar tell the lady of the place, 

I'm come to clout her caidron. 

Fa adrie, didlep didle, &c 

Madam, if you have wark for me, 

I'll do't to your contentment, 
And dinna care a single flie 

For any man's resentment ; ^_ 

For, lady fair, though I appear 

To ev'ry ane a tinkler. 
Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell, 

I am a gentle jinker. 

Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 

Love .lupiter into a swan 

Turn'd for his lovely Leda ; 
He like a buH oer meadows ran, 

To carry aff Europa. 
Then may not I, as well as he, 

To cheat your Argos blinker, 
And win your love, like mighty Jovq 

Thus hide me in a tinkler ? 

Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 
» 
Sir, ye appear a cunning man, 

But this fine plot you'll fail in. 
For there is neither pot nor pan 

Of mine you'll drive a nail in. 
Then bind your budget on your back. 

And nails up in your apron, 
For I've a tinkler under tick 

That's us'd to clout my caldron. 
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 



SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? 

This charming song is much older, and in- 
deed superior, to Ramsay's verses, *' The Toast," 
as he calls thim. There is another set of the 
Words, much older atill, and which I take to be 



the original one, but though it has a Yery grs»< 
deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading.— 
Burns. 

Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
Saw ye nae my Peggy, 

Coming o'er the lea ? 
Sure a finer creature 
Ne'er was tbrm'd by nature, 
So complete each feature, 

So divine is she. 

O ! how Peggy charms me ; 
Every look still warms me ; 
Every thought alarms me, 

Lest she love nae me. 
Peggy doth discover 
Nought but charms all overj 
Nature bids me love her, 

That's a law to me. 

Who would leave a lover, 
To become a rover ? 
No, I'll ne'er give over, 

'Till 1 happy be. 
For since love inspires me, 
As her beauty fires me, 
And her absence tires me, 

Nought can please but she* 

When I hope to gain her. 
Fate seems to detain her, 
Cou'd I but obtain her, 
Happy wou'd I be ! 
I'll ly down before her, 
Bless, sigh, and adore her. 
With faint looks implore her, 
'Till she pity me. 

The original words, for they can scarcely be 
called verses, seem to Jae as follows ; a song f*> 
miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. 

Saw ye my Rlaggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie, 
Linkin o'er the lea? • 

High kilted was she, 
High kiltedlwas she, 
High kilted was she, 

Her coat aboon her knee. 

What mark has your Mag^e, 
What mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has your Maggie, 
That ane may ken l.ci oe? (by) 

Though it by no means follows that the sH- 
liest verses to an air must, for that reason, be 
the original song ; yet I take this ballad ol 
which I have quoted part, to be the old verse*. 
The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evi- 
dently hrs own, are never to be met with in thi 



SONGS. 



1 01 



ire-side circle of our peasantry ; whih; that 
which I take to be the old song, is in every 
•hephfrd's mouth. Itams.ti/, I suppose, had 
thought the old ve.-ses unworthy of a place in 
nis collection.— BcRNs. 



FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' STRAE. 

It is self-evident that the first four lines of 
this song are part of a song more ancient than 
Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to 
them. As music is tht language of nature ; and 
poetry, particularly songs, are always less or 
more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) 
by some of the modifications of time and p'.ace, 
ihis is the reason why so many of our Scots airs 
have outlived their original, and perhaps many 
jubsequent sets of verses ; except a single name, 
>r phrase, or >ometiines one or two lines, simply 
to distinguish the tunes by. 

To this day among people who know nothing 
jf Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, 
jud all the song that ever I heard : — Burns. 

Gin ye meet, a bonnie lassie, 

Gie her a k.ss and let her gae ; 
But gik, ye meet a dirty hizzie, 

Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. 

Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, 

Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : 
An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 

Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. 



Look up to Pentland's tow'ring tap, 
Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw, 

O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap, 
As high as ony Roman wa.* 

Driving their haws frae whins or tee, 
There's no nae gowfers to be seen ; 

Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee 

The byass bouls on Tamson's green. 

Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs. 
And beek the house baith butt and ben ; 

That mutchkin stnwp it hads but dribs, 
Then let's get in the tappit hen. 

Good claret best keeps out the cauld, 
And drives away the winter soon ; 

It makes a man bdith ga?^ ind bauld, 
And heaves his saul beyond the moon. 

Leave to the gods your ilka care. 

If that they think us worth their while, 

I'hey can a rowth (rf blessings spare. 
Which will our fashions fears beguile. 

for what they h.ive a mind to do, 

That will thcV 'o should we gang wood ; 



If they command the storms to hlaw. 
Then upo' sight the hailstiins thud 

But soon as ere they cry, " Be quiet,* 

The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair move, 

But cour into their caves, and wait 
The high command of supreme Jov% 

Let neist day come as it thinks fit, 
The present minute's only ours ; 

On pleasure let's employ our wit, 

And laugh at fortune's fickle powen. 

Be sure ye dinna quat the grip 

Of ilka joy when ye are young, 
Before auld age your vitals nip, 

And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. 

Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsonae time { 
Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, 

Gae pou the go wan in its prime, 
Before it wither and decay. 

Watch the saft minutes of delyte, 

When Jenny speaks beneath her breath) 

And kisses, laying a' the wyte 
On you, if she kepp ony skaith. 

" Haith, ye* re ill-bred," she'll smiling nay 
" Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook ;" 

Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, 
And hide hersell in some dark nook. 

Her laugh will lead you to the place 
Where lies the happiness you want. 

And plainly tells you to your face^ 
Nineteen nay-says are hafi" a grant. 

Now to her heaving bosom cling, 

And sweetly toolie for a kiss, 
Frae her fair finger whop a ring. 

As taiken of a future bless. 

These bennisons, I'm very sure, 
Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; 

Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear 
To plague us with your whining cant. 



THE LASS O* LIVISTON. 

The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, if 
well known, and has merit as to wit and hu- 
mour ; but it is rather unfit for insertion.— I* 
begins. 

The bonnie lass o' Liviston, 

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, 

And she has written in her contract. 
To lie her lane, to lie her \(iae. 
&c. kc. 



LU 



m 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE LAST TIME T CAME O'ER THE 
MUIR. 

Ramsay found the first line of this song, 
which had been preserved as the title of the 
charming air, and then composed the rest of the 
verses to suit that line. This has always a finer 
effect than composing English words, or words 
with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title, 
Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, 
it will generally be found to be quite in the 
spirit of the air. — Burns. 

The last time I came o'er the muir, 

I left my love behind me : 
Ye pow'rs ! what pain do I endure, 

When soft ideas mind me. 
Soon as the ruddy morn display'd 

The beaming day ensuing, 
I met betimes my lovely maid, 

In fit retreats for wooing. 

Beneath the cooling shade -wa lay, 

Gazing and chastely sporting ; 
We kiss'd and promisM time away, 

Till night spread her black curtain : 
I pitied all beneath tVie skies, 

Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me ; 
In raptures I beheld her eyes. 

Which could but ill deny me. 

Should I be call'd where cannons roar, 

Where mortal steel may wound me ; 
Or cast upon some foreign shore. 

Where dangers may surround me ; 
Yet hopes again to see my love. 

To feast on glowing kisses, 
Shall make my cares at distance move, 

In prospect of such blisses. 

In all my soul there s not one place 

To let "a rival enter ; 
Since she excels in ev'ry grace, 

In her my love shall centre. 
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow. 

Their waves the Alps shall cover ; 
On Greenland's ice shall roses grow, 

Before I cease to love her 

fhe next time I gang o'er the muir, 

She shall a lover find me ; 
ind that my faith is firm and pure. 

Though I left her behind me. 
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain 

My heart to her fair bosom ; 
There, while my being does remain. 

My love more fresh shall blossom. 



JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS. 

Though this has certainly every evidence of 
ping a Scottisa air, yet there is a well-known 
me and song in the North of Ireland, called, 



The Weaver and ^fs Shuttle, O, wn;,:; 
though sung much quicker, is evt y note tht 
very tune. 



When I was in my se'nteen yt«r, 
I was baith blythe and bonny, 

tb<» lads loo'd me baith far and ne^, 
B i , I loo'd nane but Johnny : 

He gain'd my heart in twa three weekS; 

He spake sae blythe and kindly ; 
And I made him new gray breeks. 

That fitted him most finely. 

He was a handsome fellow ; 

His humour was baith franh. ind tm»t. 
His bonny locks sae yellow. 

Like gowd they glitter'd in my ee ^- 
His dimpl'd chin and rosy cheeks. 

And face sae fair and ruddy ; 
And then a-days his gray breeks. 

Was neither auld nor daddy. 

But now they're threadbare worn, 

They're wider than they vvont to be f 
They're tashed-like,* and sair torn, 

And clouted sair on ilka knee. 
But gin I had a simmer's day. 

As I have had right mony, 
I'd make a web o' new gray. 

To be breeks to ray Johnny. 

For he's weel wordy o them, 

And better gin I had to gie, 
And I'll tak pains upo' them, 

Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them fttB 
To dead him weel shall be my care, 

And please him a' my study ; 
But he maun wear the auld pair 

Awee, tho' they be duddy. 

For when the lad was in his primes 

Like him there was nae mony 
He ca'd me aye his bonny thing, 

Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny ? 
So I lo'e Johnny's gray breeks. 

For a' the care they've gi'en me yet. 
And gin we live anither year. 

We'll keep them hale between us yet 

Now to conclude, — his gray breeks, 
I'll sing them up wi' mirth and glee ; 

Here's luck to a' the gray steeks, 
That show themsells upo' the knee I 

And if wi' health I'm spared, 
A' wee while as I may, 

1 shall hae them prepared, 

As wee' as ony that's o' gray 




SONGS. 



101 



MAT iiVF OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. 

Kate of Aberdeen, is, I believe, the work of 
poor Cunningham the player ; of whom the fol- 
lowing anecdote, thoagh told before, dcvserves a 
recital. A fat dignitary of the church coining 
past Cunniu<j;hain one Srmdaj/ as the poor poet 
was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream 
near Durham, his native country, his reverence 
reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such 
an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, 
with that inoffensive gentleness of manners v^hich 
was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he 
hoped God and his reverence would forgivs his 
seeming profanity of that sacred day, " as he had 
no dinner to ent, but what lay at the bottom of 
that pool !" This, Mr. Woods, the player, who 
knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him m ich, 
essured me was true. — Burns» 

ilver moon's enamour'd beam, 

Steals softly through the night. 
To wanton with the winding stream, 

And kiss reflected light. 
To beds of state go balmy sleep, 

('Tis where you've seldom beem), 
May's vigil while the shepherds ke<!p 

With Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Upon the grefr« Ae virgins wait, 

In rosy chaplets gay, 
Till morn unbar her golden gate, 

And give the promis'd May. 
Methinks I hear the maids declare 

The promis'd May, when seen. 
Not half so fragrant, half so fair, , 

As Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 

We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
The nested birds shall raise their throats, 

And hail the maid I love : 
And see — the matin lark mistakes. 

He quits the tufted green ; 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead, 

Where midnight fairies rove. 
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead, 

Or tune the reed to love : 
For see the rosy May draws nigh. 

She claims a virgin queen ; 
And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 

" 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !" 



I Ayrshire. — The following anecdote I had from 
I the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
I land, who had it from the last John, Earl ol 
Loudon. — The then Earl of Loudon, father to 
Earl John, before mentioned. Lad' Ransay at 
Loudon, and one day walking together by the 
banks (>f Irvine water, near New-Mills, at s 
place yet called Patie's Mill, they were struck 
with the appearance of a beautiful country girU 
His lordship observed, that she would be a finfl 
theme for a song. — Allan lagged behind in re- 
turning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produc- 
ed this identical song. — Burns. 

The lass of Patie s mill, 

So bonny, blythe, and gay. 
In spite of all my skill, 

She stole my heart away. 
When tedding of the hay. 

Bare-headed on ^he green, 
Love 'midst her locks did play, 

And wanton'd in her een. 

Her arms white, round, and smootl^ 

Breasts rising in their dawn, 
To age it would give youth, 

To press 'em with his hand : 
Thro' all my spirits ran 

An ecstasy of bliss. 
When I such sweetness fan(]. 

Wrapt in a balmy kiss. 

Without the help of art, 

Like flowers which grace the wild* 
She did her sweets impart, 

Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. 
Her looks they were so mild. 

Free from affected pride, 
She me to love beguil'd ; 

I wish'd her for my bride. 



O had I all that wealth, 

Hopeton's high mountains 
Insuj-'d lang life and health, 

And pleasure at my will ; 
I'd promise and fulfil, 

That none but bonny she, 
The lass of Patie's mill 

Shou'd share the same wi' n 



fill, 



THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. 



\v Sinclair s Statidical Account of Scotland, 
COis song is localized (a verb I must use for want 
of another to express my idea) somewhere in the 



THE TURNIMSPIKE. 

There is a stanza of this excellent song fot 
local humour, omitted in this set, — ^wbere I hav» 
placed the asterisnio.f 

Hersell pe highland ihentleman, 
Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ; 



• Thirty three miles south-west of Edinburgh, 
where the Earl of Hopeton's mines are. 
„ , ,. o 1 1 1 ,-1 • 1 • II t Burns had placed the asterisrns between the 9tb 

North o/^ ^Scotland, and likewise is claimed by and 10th verseg. The verse is here restored. 







108 BURNS' 


W0KK6. 


Afld mony alterations setn 


HIGHLAND LADDIE. 


Amang te lawland whig, man. 




Fal, §-c 


As this was a favourite theme with our latiM 




Scottish muses, there are several airs and songa 


Rr8t when her to the lawlands came, 


of that name. That which I take to be the 


Narnsel was driving cows, man ; 


oldest, is t(» be found in the Musical Museum^ 


There was nae laws about him's nerse. 


beginning, / hae been at Crookie-den,— 


About the preeks or trews, man. 






I HAE been at Crookie-den* 


Nainsell did wear the philabeg. 


My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 


The plaid prick't on her shouder ; 


Viewing Willie and his men, 


The guid claymore hung pe her pelt. 


My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie 


De pistol sharg'd wi' pouder. 






There our faes that burnt and slew. 


But for whereas these cursed preeks, 


My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 


Wherewith man's nerse be locket, 


There, at last, they gat their due, 


O hon ! that e'er she saw the day ! 


My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 


For a' her houghs be prokit. 






Satan sits in his black neuk, 


Every ting in de highlands now 


My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 


Pe turn'd to alteration ; 


Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, 


The sodger dwall at our door-sheek, 


My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie : 


And tat'a te great vexation. 






The bluidy monster gae a yell. 


Scotland be turn't a Ningland now, 


My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 


An' laws pring on de eager ; 


And loud the laugh gaed round a' hell! 


Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds, 


My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 


But oh ! she fear te sodger. 






One of my reasons is, that Oswald has it in his 


Anither law came after dat. 


collection by the name of The auld Highland 


Me never saw de like, man ; 


Laddie. — It is also known by the name of 


They mak a lang road on de crund, 


Jinglan Jahnie, which is a well known song of 


And ca' him Turnimspike, man. 


four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier 




song than Jacobite times. As a proof of this, it 


An* wow ! she pe a ponny road, 


is little known to the peasantry by the name of 


Like Louden corn-rigs, man ; 


Highland Laddie ; while every body knows 


Where twa carts may gang on her, 


Jinglan Johnie. The song begins, 


An* no preak ithers legs, man. 






Jinglan John, the meickle man, 


They sharge a penny for ilka horse, 


He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonnie. 


( in troth, toey'll no pe sheaper^ ; 




For nought but gaen upo' the crund, 


Another Higland Laddie is also in the Mu- 


And they gie me a paper. 


seum, vol. v. which I take to be Ramsay's ori- 




ginal, as he has borrowed the chorus " my 


TTiei/ tak the horse then py te head. 


bonnie Highland lad, §*c.'* It consists of three 


And tere tey mak her stan, man ; 


stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has humour in 


Me tell tern, me hae seen te day^ 


its composition — it is an excellent but somewhat 


Tey had na sic comman, man. 


licentious song. — It begins, 


Nae doubt, Nainsell maun traw his purse, 


As I cam o'er Caimey-Mount, 


And pay tern what him likes, man j 


And down amang the blooming neather, &c 


rU se« a shudgment on his toor ; 




Tat filthy Turnimspike, man. 


This air, and the common Highland Laddie. 




seem only to be different sets. 


But I'll awa to the Highland hills, 


Another Highland Laddie, also in the Mw 


Where te'il a aue dare turn her. 


seum, vol. v. is the tune of several Jacobite frag 


/Ind no come near your Turnimspike, 


ments.— One of these old songs to it, only exigt* 


Unless it oe to purn her. 


as far as I know, in these four lines— 


Fal,^ 






Whare hae ye been a' day. 




Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ? 




Down the back o* Bell's brae. 




Courtin Mi^gie, courtin Maggie. 


« AeuitnameforHeU 


- 





SONGS. 



lOS 



ABolter of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air, 
tailed, the new Hiyhland Laddie,* 



THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 

The following is a set of this song, which 
was the earliest song I remember to have got by 
heart. When a chilJ, an old woman sung it to 
me, and I picked it up, every word, at first 
hearing. 

WiLLV weel I mind, I lent you my hand, 
To sing you a song which you did me command ; 
But my memory's so bad, I had almost forgot 
That you call'd it the gear and the bluithrie o't. 

I'll not sing about confusion, delusion, or pride, 
['11 sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride ; 
For virtue is an ornament that time will never 

rot, 
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't. 

rho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on, 
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the 
throne ; 

1 wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her 

smock, 
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't. 

Tho' we hae nae horses or menzie at command. 
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our 

hand ; 
And when wearied without rest, we'll find it 

sweet in any spot, 
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't. 

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; 
Hae we less, hae we mair, we will aye be content ; 
For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins 

but a groat, 
Than the miser wi* his gear and the blaithrie o't. 

I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the 

queen ; 
They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink 

let them swim, 
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it 

still remote, 
Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't. 



And how the lass that wants it is by tLe lada 

forgot, 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't !* 

Jockie was the laddie that he!d the pieugh, 
But now he's got gowd and gear eneugh ; 
He thinks nae mair of me that wears the plaidea 

coat ; 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie &'t 1 

Jenny was the lassie that mucked the byre, 

But now she is clad in her silken attire. 

And Jockie says he lo'es her, and swears he'j 

me forgot ; 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 

But all this shall never daunton me, 

Sae lang's I keep my fancy free : 

For the lad that^s sae inconstant, he's not worth 

a groat ; 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ' 



THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 

When I think on this warld's pelf. 

And the little wee share I have o't to myself. 



• The following observation was found in a merao- 
-andum book belonging to Burns: 

The Highlander^ Prayer at Sheriff^ Muir. 
" O Lr—d l>e thou with us ; but, if thou be nnt with 
as, be not against us ; but leave it betiveen thi: red coati 
tndutr 



TWEEDSIDE. 

In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tella 
us that about thirty of the songs in that publi- 
cation were the works of some young gentlemen 
of his acquaintance ; which songs are marked 

with the letters D. C, &c Old Mr. Tytler, 

of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender 
of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that 
the songs marked C, in the Tea-table, were the 
composition of a Mr. Craw ford, of the house of 
Achinames, who was afterwards unfortunately 

drowned coming from France As Tytler was 

most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay^ 
I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of 
consequence, the beautiful song of Twerdside is 
Mr. Crawford's, and indeed does great honour 
to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Craw- 
ford ; the Mary he celebrates, was Mary Stuart, 
of the Castlemilk family, afterwards married tc 
a Mr. John Belches. 

What beauties does Flora disclose ! 

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ; 
Yet Mary's still sweeter than those ; 

Both nature and fancy exceed. 
Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, 

Not all the gay flowers of the field, 
Nor Tweed gliding gently through those, 

Such beauty and pleasure does yield. 

The warblers are heard in the grove. 
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, 

The blackbird and sweet cooing dove. 
With music enchant er'ry bush. 



• Shame fall the gear and the bkitfry (ft, is the tuni 
of an old Scottish SOUR, spoken when a young hand- 
ftome girl marries an old man, upon the ac(<ount of h<i< 
wealth —Kelly's Scoti Proveriu. 



110 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Come, let us go forth vo the mead, 
Let us see how the primroses spring, 

We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, 
And love while the feather'd folks aing. 

How does my love pass the long day ? 

Does Mary not 'tend a few sheep ? 
Do they never carelessly stray, 

While happily she lies asleep ? 
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest j 

Kind nature indulging my bliss, 
To relieve the soft pains of my breast, 

rd steal an ambrosial kiss. 

*Tis she does the virgins excel, 

No beauty with her may compare ; 
Love's graces around her do dwell ; 

She's fairest, where thousands are fair. 
Sav, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? 

Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ; 
Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, 

Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? 

I have seen a song, calling itself the original 
Tweedsiffe, and said to have been composed by 
a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanaas, of 
which I still recollect the first. 

When Maggy and T was acquaint, 

I carried my noddle fu' hie ; 
Nae lintwhite on a' the gieen plain, 

Nor gowdspink sae happy as me : 
But I saw her sae fair, and I lo'ed ; 

I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; 
So now I maun wander abroad. 

And lay niy banes far frae the Tweed. 

The last stanza runs thus : — Ed. 

To Meiggy my love I did tell, 

Saut tears did my passion express, 
Alas ! for I loo'd her o'erwell, 

An' the women loo sic a man less. 
Her heart it was frozen and cauld. 

Her pride had my ruin decreed ; 
Therefore I will wander abroad. 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. 



THE BOATIE ROWS. 

The author of the Boatie Mows, was a Mr. 
Ewen of Aberdeen. It is a charming display of 
womanly affectiuu miugling with the concerns 
and occupations of life. It is nearly eq^ual to 
There's nae luck about the house. 

O WKEL may the boa*:ie row. 
And better may she speed ; 
And leesoine may the boatie n. 
That wins my biiirns bread ; 
Tl.e boatie rows, the boatie rcws. 
The boatie rows indeed ; 
And weel may the boatie row 
That wins the bairns bread* 



I cust • my line in Largo bay, 

And fishes I catch'd nine ; 

There was three to boil, and three to Irf 

And three to bait the line : 

The boatie rows, the boatie row? 

The boatie rows indeed ; 

And happy be the lot of a* 

Who wishes her to speed. 

O weel may the boatie row, 
That fills a heavy creel,f 
And cleads us a' frae head to feet, 
And buys our porridge meal : 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy be the lot of a* 
That wish the boatie speed. 

When Jamie vow'd he would be mine 
And wan frae me my heart, 

muckie lighter grew ray creel, 
He swore we'd never part : 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
And muckie lighter is the load. 
When love bears up the creel. 

My kurtch I put upo' my head. 
And dress'd mysel* fu' braw ; 

1 true my heart was douf an' wae, 
When Jamie gaed awa : 

But weel may the boatie row, 
And lucky be her part ; 
And lightsome be the lassie's care, 
That yields an honest heart. 

When Sawney, Jock, an' Janetie, 

Are up and gotten lear, 

They'll help to gar the boatie row. 

And lighten a' our care : 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows fu' weel ; 

And lightsome be her heart that bears 

The murlain, and the creel. 

And when wi' age we're worn down, 
And hirpling round the* door. 
They'll? row to keep us dry and warm. 
As we did them before : — 
Then weel may the boatie row, 
She wins the bairns bread ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 
That wish the boat to speed ! 



THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 

Another, out very pretty Anglo- Scottish 
piece. 



* Cast.— The Aberdeenshire dialert. 
t An osier basket. 



u 



SONGS. 



Hi 



How blest has ray time Deen, what joys have I 

known, 
Since wedlock's soft bondage m&de Jessy my 

own ! 
So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain. 
That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 

Thro* walks grown with woodbines, as often we 

stray, 
Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones 

see 
And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. 

To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen 
In revels all day with the nymphs on the green : 
Tho' painful my absence, my doubts she be- 
guiles, 
And meets me at night with complacence and 
smiles. 

What tho' on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, 
Her wit and good humour bloom all the year 

thro' ; 
Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, 
And gives to her mind what he steals from her 

youth. 

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, 
And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous 

fair ; 
In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! 
To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 



THE POSIE. 

It appears evident to me that Oswald com 
posed his Roslin Castle on the modulation of 
this air. — In the second part of Oswald's, in the 
three first bars, he has either hit on a wonder- 
fid similarity to, or else he has entirely borrow- 
ed the three first bars of the old air ; and the 
close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. 
The old verses to which it was sung, when I 
took down the notes from a country girl's voice, 
had no great merit. — The following is a speci- 



Thkrk was a pretty May,* and a milkin she 
went ; 
Wi' her ivd rosy cheeks, and her coal-black 
hair : 
And she ha* met a young man a comin o'er the 
bent. 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 

O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, 

Wi thy red rosy cheeks, &nd thy coal-black 
hair? 



Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, she says. 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 
What if I gang alang wi' thee, my ain prett) 
May, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-blacV 
hair ; 
Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, she 
says, 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 
&c. &e. 



THE POSIE 

O LUVK will venture in, vhere it daur na wee' 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has 

been. 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the 

wood sae green, 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu*, the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the piuk o' woman kind, and blooms 
without a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to ii)y ain dear May 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 
in view, 

For it's like a baumy kiss o* her sweet bonie 
mou ; 

The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- 
ing blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May ; 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o* siller 

grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o 

day. 
But the songster's nest within the bush 1 winu 

tak away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May 



will pu', when the e'ning sta. 



The woodbine 

is near. 
And the diamond djaps o' dew shall be he e'ei 

sae clear ; 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's tt 

wear, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o 

luve. 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear b) 

a' above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shal 

ne'er remuve, 
And this will be a posie to my au «^ar Ma7 



US 



BURNS' WORKS. 



MARY'S DREAM. 

The ]Mary here alluded to is generally sup- 
p" ';o be Miss Mary Mao.ghie, daughter to 
tile A-.dird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet 
was a Mr. Alexander Lowe, who likewise 
wrote another beautiful song, oalled Pompey^s 
Ghost. — I have seen a poetic epistle from him 
in North America, where he now is, or lately 
was, to a lady in Scotland. — By the strain of 
the verses, it appeared that they allude to some 
love disappointment 

The moon had c'imb'd the hignest hill, 

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And from the eastern summet shed 

Her silver light on tow'r and tree: 
When Mary laid her down to sleep, 

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; 
When soft and low a voice was heard, 

Saying, Mary, weep no more for me. 

She from her pillow gently rais'd 

Her head to ask, who tliere might be ; 

She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand, 
With visage pale and hollow eye ; 
O Mary, dear, cold is my clay, 

* It lies beneath a stormy sea ; 
Far, far from thee, I sleep in death j 

' So, Mary, weep no more for me. 

Three stormy nights and stormy days 

* We toss'd upon the raging main; 

* And long we strove our baik to save, 

' But all our striving was in vain. 

* E'en then wlun horror chill d uiy blood, 

' My heart \va> iiil'd witii love for thee . 

* The storm is past, and 1 at rest ; 

' So, Mary, weep no more for me, 

O maiden dear, thyself prepare, 
' We soon shall meet upon that shore, 

* Where love is free from doubt and care, 

' And thou and 1 shall part no more !' 
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadows fled, 

No more of Sandy could she see ; 
But soft the passing spirit said, 

" Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !" 



THE JOLLY BEGGAR. 



He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet nrad he vk 

byre. 
But in aiilnt the ha* door, or else afore the fir^ 
And well gang nae rnair, Sfc 

The beggar's bed was made at e'en, wi' good 

clean straw and hay, 
And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar 

lay. 

And weUl gang nae mair, ^c. 

Up raise the good man's dwhter, and for lo ba^ 

the door, 
And there she saw the begg-ar standin i' th» 

floor, 

And we'll gang nae mair, 8^c 

He took the lassie in his arms, and to the bed 

he ran. 
O hooly, hooly wi* me, sir, ye'll waken oul 

goodraan, 

And we'll gang nae mair, S^c. 

The beggar was a cunnin loon, and ne'er a 

word he spake, 
Until he got his turn done, syne he began te 

crack, 

And we'll gang nae mair, 8fc. 

Is there ony aogs into this town ? maiden, tell 

me true, 
And what wad ye do wi' them, my hinny and 

my dow ? 

And we'll gang nae mair, 8fc. 

They'll rive a' my mealpocks, and do me meikl« 
wrang, 

dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir man ? 

And we'll gang nae mair, ^c. 

Then she took up the mealpocks and flang then) 

o'er the wa'. 
The deil gae wi' the mealpocks, my maidenheai 

and a', 

And we'll gang nae mair, §*c. 

1 took ye for some gentleman, at least the laard 

of Brodie ; 
O dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir bodie? 
And we'll gang nae mair, §*c. 



Said to have been composed oy King James He took the lassie in his arms, and gae her 
v., on a frolic of his own. 

There was a j<dly beggar, and a begging h* 

was boun', 
iksxa be took up his quarters into a land'art 
town. 
And we'll gang nae mair a roving, 

Sae late into the night. 
And we'll gang nae mair a roving, boy$. 
Let the moon shine ne'er sae bright I ] 



kissci 
three, 
And four-and-twenty hunder merk to pay tha 
nurice-fee. 

And we'll gang nae mair, Sfc, 

He took a horn frae his side, and blew haith 

loud and shrill, 
And four-and-twenty belted knighr^ came •kijK 

piiig o'er the hill, 

And we'll gang nae mair, ^e. 



SONGS. 



\nd Ke toolt out his little knife, loot a' his dud- 
dies fa', 

And he was the brawest gentleman that was 
ani;inw them a'. 

And we'll gang nae mair, §«. 

1 he begsjar was a cliver loon, and he lap shoul- 
der height, 
f) ay for sicken quiirters as I gat yesternight ! 
And we II gang nae mair, 8fc. 



1 HE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. 

BT MR. DUDGEON. 

This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son 

in Deiwickshire. 

Up amang yon cliffy rocks 

Sweetly rings the rising echo, 
To the maid that tends the goats. 
Liking o'er her native notes. 

Hark ! she sings, " Young Sandy's kind 
An* he's promised ay to Ice me ; 

Here's a brooch I ne'er shall tine 
Till he's fairly married to me : 
Drive away ye drone Time, 
An' bring about our bridal day. 

" Sandy herds a flock o' sheep, 

Aften does he blaw the whistle, 
[n a strain sae saftly sweet, 
Lanimies iist'ning daurna bleat. 

He's as fleet's the mountain roe, 
Hardy as the highland heather. 

Wading through the winter snow. 
Keeping ay his flock together ; 
But a plaid, wi' bare houghs. 
He braves the bleakest norlin blast. 

" Brawly he can dance and sing 

Canty glee or highland cronach ; 
Nane can ever match his fling, 
At a reel, or round a ring ; 

Wightly can he wieid a rung, 
In a brawl he's ay the bangster : 

A' his praise can ne'er be sung 
By the la ngest- winded sangster. 
Sangs that sing o' Sandy 
Come abort, though they were e'er sae lang." 



TARRY WOO. 

Tkis is a very pretty song ; but I fancy that 
the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, 
»re much older than the rest of tb) words. 

Tarbt woo, tarry woo, 
Tarry woo is ill to spin ; 
Card it well, card it well. 
Card well ere ye begin. 



When 'tis carded, row*d and 
Then the work is haflens done ; 
But when woven, drest and deao. 
It may be oleading for a queen. 

S>:;g, my bonny harmless sheep, 
lltt\ feed upon the mountain s steepf 
BUtting sweetly as ye go, 
Thr •>' the winter's frost and snow ; 
Hart, and hynd, and fallow-deer, 
No be half so useful are : 
Frae kings to him that bads the plow. 
Are all oblig'd to tarry woo. 

Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip. 
O'er the hills and vallies trip, 
Sing up the praise of tarry woo, 
Sing the flocks that bear it too ; 
Haimless creatures without blame. 
That dead the back, and cram the waSM^ 
Keep us warm and heaity fou : 
Leese me on the *arry woo. 

How happy is the shepherd's life, 
Far fiae courts, and free of strife, 
While the giramers bleat and bae, 
And the lambkins answer mae : 
No such music to his ear ; — 
Of thief or fox he has no fear : 
Sturdy Kent and Cully true, 
Will defend the tarry woo. 

He lives content, and envies noiie| 
Not even a monarch on his throne, 
Tho' he the royal sceptre sways, 
Has not sweeter holidays. 
Who'd be a king, can ony tell. 
When a shepherd sings sae well ? 
Sings sae well, and pays his due, 
With honest heart and tarry woo. 



THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIK 

The first half stanza is much older than th* 
days of Ramsay — The old words began thus ;— 

The collier has a dochter, and, O, she*8 woiw 

der bonnie ! 
A laird he was that sought her, rich baitli ia 

lands and money. 
She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she \)e a hAy 
But she wad hae a collier, the color o' L21 



The collier has a naughter. 

And O she's wonder bonny ; 
A laird he was that sought her, 

Rich baith in lands and raoaejr 
The tutors wateh'd the motion 

Of this young honest lover ; 
But love is like the ocean ; 

Wha citp 'ts depth discover? 



114 



BURNS' WORKS. 



He had t .iv,art. to please ye, 
Ami was l)y ii' respected ; 

His. aiis s,ir, riiuiid him easy, 

Genteel, hut unaffected. 
The ci)llier's bonnie lassie, 

Fair as the new-blown Hlie, 
Ay sweet, anr- never saucy, 

Secur'd the heart of WiRte. 

He lov'd beyond expression 

The charms that were about hef; 
And panted ibr posse-sion, 

His life WHS dull without her 
After mature resolving. 

Close to his breast he held her 
In saf^est flames dissolving, 

He tenderly thus tell'd her : 

My bonny collier's daughter, 

Let naethiiig discompose ye, 
'Tis no ymir scanty tocher 

Shall ever gar me lose ye : 
For I have gear in plenty, 

And love suys, *Tis my duty 
To ware what heav'n has lent me 

Upon your wit and beauty. 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE— O. 

The old words of this song are omitted here, 
though much more beautiful than these insert- 
ed ; which were mostly composed by poor Ffr- 
gusson, in one of his merry humours. — The <ld 
words began thus : — 

I'll rowe thee o*er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
Ml rowe thee o'er the tea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
Altho' the nioht were ne'er sae wat^ 

And I were ne'er sae weary, O, 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. — 



Will ye gang o'er the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O ? 
And cuddle there sae kindlie. 

My ain kind dearie, O? 
At thorny dike and birken-trec, 

We'll daff and ne'er be weary, O ; 
They'll scug il. een frae you and me. 

My ain kind dearie, O ! 

Nae herds, wi' kent or colly, there 

Shall ever come to fear ye, O ; 
But lavrocks, whistling in the air, 

Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O. 
While others herd their lambs and yowes, 

And toil for warld's gear, my jo ; 
Upon the lea, my pleasure grows, 

W<* thee ray kind dearie, O. 



DOWN THE BURN, DAVffi. 

I have been informed, that the tune of Ztom 
the Burn, Davie, was the composition of David 
Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, b«v 
longing to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale 

When trees did bud, and fields were greeiw 

And broom bloom d fair to see ; 
When Mary was complete fifteen, 

And love laugh'd in her e'e ; 
Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did mOTe» 

To speak her mind tiius free, 
Gang doum the Inrn Davie, love. 

And I shall follow thee. 

Now Davie did each lad surpass. 

That dwalt on yon burn si«le. 
And Mary was the boimiest lass, 

Just meet to be a bride ; 
Her cheeks weie rosie, red and whitCf 

Her een were bonnie blue ; 
Her looks were like Aurora bright, 

Her lips like dropping dew. 

As down the burn they took their way. 

What tender tales they said I 
Kis cheek to her's he aft did lay. 

And with her bosom play'd ; 



What pass'd, I guess, was harmless plajTf 

And naething sure unmeet : 
For, ganging hame, I heard them say, 

They lik'd a walk sae sweet ; 
And that they aften should return. 

Sic pleasure to renew ; 
Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you. * 



BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET 
BETTY. 

The oIq words, all that I remember, 



Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

It is a cauld winter night 
It rains, it hails, it th\inders. 

The moon she gies nae light : 
It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, 

That eTer I tint my way ; 
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee. 

Until it be break o* day. — • 

O, Betty will bake my bread. 

And Betty will brew rav ale. 
And Betty will be my love. 

When I come over the dale 

• The last four lines of the thini stanza, beinf 
somewhat objectionable in point of lieliracy, are omit- 
ted. Burns altered these lines. Hai' his alteration 
been attended with his usual suecest, it would have 
been adooted. 



SONGS. 



115 



lilink over the burn, sweet Betry, 
lilink over the t.urn to me, 

\nd while I hae life, dear lassie, 
Mv ilia sweet Hetty tbou's be.— 



THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT 
HOUSE. 



FHE 



This is one of the most beautifui songs in 
the Scots, or any other language. — The two 
lines, 



And will 
Ana will 



see his face again ! 
hear hiiA speak ! 



as well as the two preceding ones, are uneqnall- 
ed almost by any thing I ever heard or read : 
and the lines, 

The present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw— 

»re worthy of the first poet. — It is long poste- 
rior to Ramsay's days. — About the year 1771, 
or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballad ; 
and I suppose the composition of the song was 
net much auterior to that period.' 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 
And are ye sure he's weel ? 
Is this a time to talk o' wark? 
Ye jads, lay by your wheel ! 
Is this a time to talk of wark. 
When Colin' s at the door? 
Gie me my cloak ! I'll to the quay, 
And see him come ashore. 

Fur there's nne luck about the house, 

There^s nae luck ava ; 

There's little pleasure in the house, 

When our gudenians awa. 

Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side, 

Put on the muckle pat ; 

Gie little Kate her cotton gown, 

And Jock his Sunday's coat ; 

And mak their jshoon as black as slaes, 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 

It'b a to please my ain gudemaa, 

He likes to see them braw. 

For there's nae luck, ^c. 

There is twa hens upon the bank, 

'Sbeen fed this month and mair ; 

Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 

That Colin weel may fare ; 

And spread the table neat and clean, 

Crar ilka thing look braw ; 

It's a for love of my gudeman,— 

Tor he's been long awa. 

For there's nae luck, 8fc. 

* It is no« ascerLained that Muikle, the tratuUttr 
«f Canioeofi, was the author of this lOQg. 



gie me down uy bigonets, 
My bishop-satin gown ; 

For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin's come to town ; 

My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on« 

My hose o' pearl blue, 

It's a* to please my ain gudeman, 

For he's baith leel and true. 

For there's nae luck, 8fc. 

Sae true's his words, sae smooth's his speedl 

His breath like caller air, 

His very foot has music in't. 

When lie comes up the stair : 

And will I see his face again ! 

And will I hear him speak ! 

I'm dowright dizzy with the thought* 

In troth I'm like to greet ! 

Fur there's nae luck, |fc. 

The cauld blasts of the winter wind, 

That thrilled thro' my hear<, 

They're a' blaun by ; I hae Lm safe, 

'Till death we'll never part ; 

But what puts parting in my head f 

It may be far awa ; 

The present moment is our ain, 

The neist we never saw ! 

Fur there's nae luck, Sfc* 

Since Colin's well, I'm well content, 

1 hae nae mair to crave ; 

Could I hilt live to mak him blesi^ 

I'm blest aboon the lave ; 

And Will I see his face again ! 

And will I hear him spej'it ! 

I'm downright dizzy with ine tk^^ 

In troth I 'm like to grvet ! 



JOHN HAY'f. BONriF I/V-r^- 

JOhn Hat's KonrAt L&ssia wa* i .fcghter ot 
John Ilav, E«'.il, or Marqcls of Tr^eddale, and 
late Ccunrcds Dowigerof Roxburgh. — She died 
at Broo:ul;>-.Js, ueai Kelso, some time betweea 
the yv-ars. l-^^O end 1740- 

Bt sp".jo«-'j winding Tay a swain was reclining 
Af'^ crr'd he, Oh hey ! maun I still live pining 
IViypiSi tlius away, and daurna discove" 
Ti» c/ Ix/unie Hay that I am her lover ! 

N;«« mair it will hide, the flame waxes stronger ; 
If she's not my bride, niy days are nae langer : 
Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture. 
Maybe, ere we part, my vows may content her. 

She's fresh as. the Spring, and sweet as Auror*. 
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good« 

morrow ; 
The swaird of the mead, enamell'd wi' daisies. 
Looks wit! er'd and dead when twm'd of hei 



ri6 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But if slie appear wTjere verdure invites her, 
The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the 

swt-eter ; 

Tis heaven to l)e by when her wit is a-fiowing, 
tier smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glow- 

ing. 

Fhe mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded, 
Struck dumb wi* amaze, my mind is confounded ; 
I'm a' in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye, 
For a' my aesire is Hay's bonnie las«»<». 



THE BONNIE BROCKET LASSIE. 

The idea of this song is to me very original 
the two first lines are all of it that is old. The 
rest of the song, as well as those songs in the 
Museum marked T, are the works of an obscure 
tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of 
Tytler, commonly known by the name of Bal- 
loon Tytler, from his having projected a ballocm : 
A mortal, who, though he drudges about Edin- 
burgh as a commop printer, with leaky shoes, a 
sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as 
George- by-the- Grace- of- God, and Solomor>-the 
Son-of-David ; yet that same unknown drunken 
mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths 
Elliot's pompous Encyclopedia Britannica, which 
he composed at half a guinea a week !* 

The bonnie brucket lassie 

She's blue beneath the e'en; 
She was the fairest lassie 

That danced on the green : 
A lad he loo'd her dearly. 

She did his love return ; 
But he his vows has broken. 

And left her for to mourn. 

•' My shape," she says, *' was handsome, 

My face was fair and clean ; 
But now I'm bonnie brucket, * 

And blue beneath the e'en : 
My eyes were bright and sparkling, 

Before that they turn'd blue ; 
But now they're dull with weeping, 

And a , ray love, for you. 

" My person it was comely, 

My shape, they said, was neat ; 
But now I am quite chang'd, 

My stays they winna meet •, 
A* night I sleeped soundly, 

My mind was never sad ; 
But now my rest is broken 

Wi' thinking o' my lad. 

^ O could I live in darkness, 
Or hide me in the sea. 



Since my love is unfaiLhfol^ 

And has forsaken me ! 
No other love I suffer'd 

Within my breast to dwel : 
In nought I have offended. 

But loving him too well.** 

Her lover heard her mournit^. 

As by he chanc'd to pass, 
And press'd unto his bosom 

The lovely brucket lass : 
" My dear," he said, " cease grieril^ 

Since that your love's sae true. 
My bonnie brucket la-ssie 

I'll faithful prove to you.'* 



SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN 

This song is beautiful. — The chorus in par^ 
ticular is truly pathetic. — I never could lean 
any thing of its author. 

A LASS that was laden with care 
Sat heavily under yon thorn ; 
3 listen 'd awhile for to hear, 

When thus she began for to mourn : 
Whene'er my dear shepherd was there^ 

The birds did melodiously sing. 
And cold nipping winter did wear 
• A face that resembled the spring. 
Sae merry as we twa kae been, 
Sae merry as we twa hae been. 
My heart it is like for to break. 
When I think on the days we hae MM. 

Our flocks feeding close by his side, 

He gently pressing my hand, 
I view'd the wide world in its pride, 

And laugh'd at the pomp of command \ 
My dear, he would oft to me say. 

What makes you hard-hearted to me? 
Oh ! why do you thus turn away 

From him who is dying for thee? 
Sae merry, &fc. 

But now he is far from my sight, 

Perhajss a deceiver may prove, 
Which makes me lament day and nig^ 

That ever I granted my love. 
At eve, when the rest of the folk 

Were merrily seated to spin, 
1 set myself under an oak, 

And heavily sighed for him. 
Sat merry, 8fc. 



• Btlloon Tytler, is here referred to. 



THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR 

This is another beautiful song of Mr. Crxw 
ford's composition. In the neighbourhood d 
Traquair, tradition still shews the old "Bush;" 
which, when I saw it in the year 1787, wai 



SONGS. 



Ill 



'wmpoeel of eight or nine rag-ged birches. The 
Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees 
ftear by, which he calls " The New Bush." 

Heak nie, ye nymphs, and every swain, 

I'll tell how Peggy grieves nie ; 
Tho' thus I languish and complain, 

Alas ! she n«''er believes me. 
My vows and sighs, like silent air, 

Unheeded never move her ; 
The bonnie bush aboon Traquair, 

Was where I first did love her. 

That day she smilM and made me glad, 

No maid secm'd ever kinder ; 
I though*: :nyse!f the luckiest lad, 

So swjetly there to find her. 
I try'd to sooth my am'ious flame. 

In words that I thought tender ; 
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, 

I meant not to offend her. 

Yet now she scornful flees the plain. 

The fields we then frequented ; 
If e'er we meet, she shews disdain. 

She looks as ne'er acquainted. 
The bonnie bush bloom'd fair in May, 

Its swtets I'll ay remember ; 
But now her Fiown* make it decay, 

It fades as in December. 

Ye rural [low'rs, who hear my strains, 

Why thus should Peggy grieve me? 
Oh ! make her partner in my pains. 

Then let her smiles relieve me : 
If not, my love will turn despair, 

My passion no more tender ; 
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair, 

To lonely wilds I'll wander. 



CROMLET'S LILT. 

" In the latter end of the I6th century, the 
Chisholms were proprietors of the estate of 
CromlecUs (now possessed by the Drummonds). 
The eldest son of that family was very much 
attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, 
comu:only known by the name of Fair Helen 
of Ardocli. 

" At that time the opportunities of meeting 
betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently 
more sought after than now ; aaid the Scottish 
ladies, far from priding thcinselves on extensive 
literature, were thought sufficiently book-learn- 
ed if thev could make out the Scriptures in their 
mother tongue. Writitig was entirely out of 
the line of female education : At that period 
the most of our young n»en of family sought a 
fortune, or found a grave, in France. Crom- 
lus, when he wetit abroad to the war, was o- 
bliged to leave the nianagem«.-r.: of his corre*> 
Qonutiuce with hia uii»C'. ifcs to a lay brothiu cf 



the monastery of Dumblain, in the iiiirnciiatt 
neighbourhood of Cromleok, and near AnKi.h. 
This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible *i 
Helen's charms. He artfully prepossessed heif 
with stories to the disadvantage uf C.<!ailus; 
and by misinterpreting or keeping up the let- 
ters and messages intrusted to his cue. h en 
tirely irritated both All connection was li;oker. 
off betwixt them: Helen was incoiisolabie. and 
Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad call- 
ed Cromlet's Lilt, a proof of the elegance of hk 
genius, as well as the steadiness oi' his h.ve. 

" When the artful mtmk thought rune had 
sufficiently softent 1 Helen's sorrow, he projioscd 
himself as a lover t Helen was obdurate . hut 
at last, overcome by the persuasions of her 
brother with whom she lived, and who, h iving 
a family of thirty-oae children, was prol^ably 
very well pleased to get her off his hands, she 
submitted, rather than consented to the cere- 
mony ; but there her compliance ended ; and, 
when forcibly put into bed, she started quite 
frantic from it, screaming out, that after three 
gentle taps on the wainscoat, at the bed head, 
she heard Cromlos's voice, crying, Helen, He- 
fen, mhid me.* Cromlus soon after coming 
home, the treachery of the confidant was dis- 
covered, — her marriage disannulled, — and He- 
len became lady Cromlecks." 

N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty- 
one chddren, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, 
one oi the seventeen sons of Tullyl)ardiue. and 
whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutoi 
of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 
years. 

Since all thy vows, false maid, 
Are blown to air, 

And !ny poor heart betray'd 

To sad despair, 

Into some wilderness. 

My grief 1 will express, 

And thy hard-heartedness, 
O cruel fair. 

Have I not graven our loves 

On every tree 
In yonder spreading groves, 

Tho' false thou b« ! 
Was not a solemn oath 
Plighteil betwixt us both. 
Thou thy laith, I my troth. 

Constant to be ? 

Some gloomy place I'll find. 

Some doleful shade, 

Where neither sun nor wind 

E'er entrance had: 

Into that hollow cave, 

There will 1 sigh and rave, 

Because thou dost l»ehave 

So faithlettsly. 



* R^'mcmbei nie. 



ns 



BURNS WORKS. 



Wild fruit snail be my meat, 

ril drink the spring, 

Cold earth shall be my seat : 
For covering 

ril have the starry sky 

My head to canopy. 

Until my soul on hy 

Shall spread its win^. 

I'll have no funeral fire, 

Nor tears for me ; 
No grave do I desire. 

Nor obsequies : 
The courteous Red-breast he 
With leaves will cover ne, 
And sing my elegy ♦ 

With doleful voice. 

And when a ghost I am, 

I'll visit thee, 

O thou deceitful dame, 

Wliose cruelty 

Has kill'd the kindest heart 

That e'er felt Cupid's dart. 

And never can desert 

From loving thee. 



MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. 
AiroTHER beautiful song of Crawford's. 

Love never more shall give me pain. 

My fancy's fix'd on thee. 
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain, 

My Peggy, if thou die. 
Thy beauty doth such pleasure give, 

Thy love's so true to me, 
Without thee I cau never live, 

My de irie, if thou die. 

tf fate shall tear thee from my breast, 

How shall I lonely stray ! 
In dreaiy dreams the night I'll waste, 

In sighs, the silent day. 
I ne'er can so much virtue find, 

Nor such perfection see ; 
Then I'll renounce all woman kind, 

My Peggy, after thee. 

No new-blown beauty fires my heart. 

With Cupid's raving rage ; 
But thine, which can such sweets impart^ 

Must all the world engage. 
Twas this, that like the morning sun, 

Gave joy and life to me ; 
And when its destin'd day is done, 

With Peggy let me die. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

And in such pleasure share ; 
ITou who its faithful flames approve. 

With pity view the fair : 



Restore my Peggy's wonted charms, 
Those charms so dear to me ! 

Oh ! never rob them from these arms} 
I'm lost if Peggy die. 



SHE ROSE AND LET ME IN. 

The old set of this song, which is still to be 
found in printed collections, is much prettier 
than this ■. but somebody, I believe it was Ram- 
say, took it into his head to clear it of somi 
seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more 
chaste and more dull. 

The night her silent sable wore, 

And gloomy were the !-kies ; 
Of glitt'ring stars appear'd no more 

Than those in Nelly's eyes. 
When at her father's yate I knock'd. 

Where I had often been, 
She, shrouded only with her smock. 

Arose and loot me in. 

Fast lock'd within her close embrace 

She trembling stood asham'd ; 
Her swelling breast, and glowing fac^ 

And ev'ry touch inflam'd. 
My eager passion I obey'd, 

Resolv'd the fort to win ; 
And her fond heart was soon betray'd 

To yield and let me in. 

Then, then, beyond expressing, 

Transporting was the joy ; 
I knew no greater blessing. 

So bless'd a man was I. 
And she, all ravish'd with delight. 

Bid me oft come again ; 
And kindly vow'd, that ev'ry night 

She'd rise and let me in. 

But ah I at last she prov'd with bainit 

And sighing sat and dull. 
And I that was as much concern'd, 

Look'd e'en just like a fool. 
Her lovely eyes with tears ran o'er, 

Repenting her rash sin : 
She sigh'd, and curs'd the fatal boar 

That e'er she loot me in. 

But who cou'd cruelly deceive. 

Or from such beauty part ? 
I lov'd her so, I could not leaTe 

The charmer of my heart ; 
But wedded, and conceal'd our crinM 

Thus all was well again, 
And now she thanks the happy tioM 

That e'er she lout me in. 



SONGS. 



119 



GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION. 

I AM not sure if this old and charming air be 
of the Sitiith, as is commonly said, or of the 
North of Scotland, — There is a song apparently 
IS ancient as Eive-Buyhts, Marion, which 
■ings to the same tune, and is evidently of the 
North It begins thus : — 

Thk Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, 

Mary, Marget, and Jean, 
They wad na stay at honnie Castle Gordon, 
But awa to Aberdeen. 



Will ye go to the ewe-bughts, Marion, 

And wear in the sheep wi' me ; 
The sun shines sweet, my Marion, 

But nae haff sae sweet as thee. 
O Marion's a bonny la^s, 

And the blyth blinks in her e'e ; 
And fain wad I marry Marion, 

Gin Marion wad marry me. 

There's gowd in your garters, Marion, 

And silk on your white liause-bane ; 
Fu' fain wad I kiss my Marion, 

At e'en when I come hame. 
There's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion, 

Wha ga]je, and glower with their e'e, 
At kirk when they see my Marion ; 

But nane of them lo'cs like me. 

I've nine milk-ewes, my Marion, 

A cow and a brawny quey, 
I'll gie them a' to my Marion, 

Just on her brid il-day : 
And ye's get a green sey apron, 

And waistcoat of the London brown, 
And wow ! but ye will be vap'ring, 

Whene'er ye gang to the town. 

I'm young and stout, my Marion ; 

Nane dance like me on the green ; 
And giu ye forsake me, Marion, 

I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean : 
Sae put on your pearlins, Marion, 

And kyrtle of the cramnsie ; 
\nd soon as my chin has nae hair on, 

I thall come west, and see ye.* 



have one of the earliest copies of the song, and 
it has prefixed. 

Tune of Tarry Woo. — 

Of which tune, a different set has insensibly 
varied into a different air. — To a Scuts critic, 
the pathos of the line, 

" Tho* his back be at the wa',** 

— must be very striking. — It needs not a Jaco- 
bite prejudice t,- be affected with this song. The 
supposed authoi jf *' Levns GordovC' was a Mr 
Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie, 

Oh ! send Lewie Gordon hame, 

And the lad I wiuna name ; 

Tho' his back be at the wa'. 

Here's to him that's far awa! 

Oh lion ! my Hit/hland man. 
Oh, my bonny Highland man; 
Weel would I my true-love ken, 
Amang ten thousand Highland mes. 

Oh ! to see his tartan-trews, 
Bonnet blue, and laigh-heei'd shoes, 
Philabeg abnon his knee ; 
That's the lad that I'll gang wi* ! 
Oh hon, ^c. 

The princely youth that I do mean, 
Is fitted for to be a king : 
On his breast he wears a star ; 
You'd tak him for the God of War 
Oh hon, SfC, 

Oh to see this Princely One, 
Seated on a royal throne ! 
Disasters a' would disappear, 
Then begins the Jub'lee year ! 

Oh hon, jfc. 



LEWIS GORDON.f 

This air is a proof how one o*^ our Scots 
tunes comes to be composed out of another. I 



♦ This is marked in the T'-a Tahle Miscellany as an 
old «ong with ndiiitions Kd. 

* " Lord Lewis Gordon, younger brother to the 
then Duke of Gordon, coinmanded a detachment for 
the Chevaliei, and acquitti»;l himsdf with great gal- 
huitrv and iudgmenu Me died in 1754." 



OH ONO CHRIO. 

Dr. Blacklock informed me that this song 
was composed on the infamous massacre <A 
Glencoe. 

Oh ! was not I a weary wight ! 

Oh ! one chri, oh I ono chri—~ 
Maid, wife, and widow, in one night ! 
When in my soft and yielding arms, 
O ! when most I thought him free from harma. 
Even at the dead time of the night, 
They broke my bower, and slew my knight. 
With ae lock of his jet-black hair, 
I'll tie my heart for evermair ; 
Nae sly-tongued youth, or flitt'ring 8wa.u, 
Shall e'er untye this knot again ; 
Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be^ 
Nor pant for aught, save heaven and thee. 
(The chorus repeated at th^ end of each klae). 



120 



BURNS WORKS. 



THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. 

This song, as far as I know, for tie first 
time appears here in print, — When I was a boy, 
it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- 
tnernber to have heard those fanatics, the Buch- 
anites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, 
which they dignify with the name of l^-mns, to 
this air. — Burns. 

As I was a walking 

One morning in May, 
The small birds sang sweetly, 

The flowers were bloomin' gay. 
Oh there I met my true love, 

As fresh as dawnin' day, 
Down amoHg the beds of sweet rcises. 

Fu* white was h*>r barefoot, 

New bathed in the dew ; 
Whiter was her white hand. 

Her een were bonnie blue; 
\nd kind were her whispers, 

And sweet was her moo, 
Down among the beds o' sweet roses. 

My father and my mother, 

I wot they told me true. 
That 1 liked ill to thrash. 

And I like worse to plough ; 
But I vow the maidens like me, 

For I keiid the way to woo, 
Down among the beds of sweet roses. 



CORN RIGS ARE BONNY. 

Mv Patie is a lover gay. 

His mind is never muddy, 
Ills breath is sweeter than new hay. 

His face is fair and ruddy. 
His shape is handsome, middle size ; 

He's stately in his wavvking ; 
The shining of his een surprise ; 

'Tis heaven to hear him tawking^ 

Last night I met him on a bawk. 

Where yellow corn was growing. 
There niony a kindly word he spake. 

That set my heart a-glowing. 
He kiss'd, and vow'd he wad be mine. 

And loo'd me best of ony ; 
That gars me like to sing sinsyae, 

O corn rigs are bonny, 

jet maidens of a silly mind 

Refuse what maist they're wanting. 
Since we for yielding are design'd. 

We chasr«ly should be granting ; 
Then I'll comply and marry Pate, 

And syne uiy cockernony 
He's free to tt.uzle air or late, 

W lere wru rigs are boiiuy. 



All the old words that ever I could meet witii 
to this air were the following, which s^em tc 
have been an old chorus. 

O corn rigs and rye rigs, 

'O corn rigs are bonnie ; 
And where'er you meet a bonnie lass. 

Preen up her cocker n»ny. 



WAUKIN O* THE FAULD. 

There are two stanzas still sung to this tune, 
which I take to be the original song whejio«» 
Ramsay composed his beautiful song of tbt 
najne in the Gentle Shepherd. — It begins, 

will ye speak at our town, 

As ye come frae the fauld, &c. 

I regret that, as in many of our old songs, th« 
delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to ita 
wit and humour. 

My Peggy is a young thing, 
Just enter'd in her teens, 
Fair as the day, and sweet as May, 
Fair as the day, and always gay. 
My Peggy is a young thing. 

And I'm not very auld, 
Yet well I like to meet her at 
The wauking of the fauld. 

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly. 
Whene'er we meet alane, 

1 wish nae mair to lay my care, 
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare, 

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly. 
To a' the lave I'm cauld ; 

But she gais a' my spirits glowy 
At waukiiig of the fauld. 

My Peggy smiles sae kindly, 
Whene'er I whisper love. 
That I look down on a* the town. 
That I look 'jown upon a crown. 
My Peggy smiles sae kindly. 

It makes me blythe and bauld, 
And naething gi'es me sic delight* 
As wauking of the fauld. 



My Peggy sings sae saftly. 

When on my pipe I play ; 
By a* the rest it is confest, 
3y a* the rest, that she sings best. 
My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

And in her sangs are tald, 

With innocence, the wale of 

At wauking of the faul i 



SONGS. 



121 



MAGGIE LAUDER. 

This ol 1 song, so pregnant with Scottish 
maitietJ and energy, is much relished by all 
ranks, notwithstanding its broad wit and pal- 
pable allusions. — Its language is a precious mo- 
del of imitation : sly, sprii^htly, and forcibly ex- 
pressive. — Maggie's tongue wags out the nick- 
names of Rob the Piper with all the careless 
Jghtsomeness of unrestrained gaiety. 

Wha wad na be in love 

Wi' bonny INIaggie Lauder? 

A piper met her gaun to Fife, 

And speirM what wius't they ra'd her ;— 

Right scornfully she answer'd him, 

Begone, \ou hallanshaker ! 

Jog on your gate, you bladderskate, 

BIy name is Maggie Lauder. 

Maggie, quo' he, and by ray bags, 
I'm fidgin' fain to see thee ; 
Sit down by me, my bonny bird, 
In truth I winna steer thee : 
For I'm a piper to my trade, 
BIy name is Rob the Ranter ; 
The la'^ses loup as they were daft, 
When I blaw up my chanter. 

Piper, quo' .Meg, hae ye your bags? 

Or is your drotie in order? 

If ye be Rob, I've heard o' you, 

Live you upo' the border ? 

Tlie lasses a', haith far and near, 

Have heard o' Rob the Ranter ; 

I'll shake uiy foot wi* right gude will, 

Gif you'll bldw up your chanter. 

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed, 

About the drone he twisted ; 

Meg up and waliop'd o'er the green, 

For brawly couiil she frisk :t. 

Weel done ! (juo* he — play jp ! quo* she ; 

Weel bobb'd ! quo' Rob the Ranter; 

'Tis worih my while to play indeed, 

When I hae sic a dancer. 

Weel hae ye play'd your part, quo* Meg, 
Your cheeks are like the crimson ; 
There's iiane iri Scotland plays sae weel. 
Since we lo.'t Hahbie Simpson. 
I've liv'd in Fife, baith maid and wife, 
Tlesr ten years and a quarter ; 
&:n' ye bIiouM come to Enster Fair, 
€peir ye fur Maggie Lauder. 



TRANENT MUIR. 



Tuui 



Killicrankie." 



*• Tbanfnt-Mi;ik" was composed by a Mr. 
Skirvin, a veiy worthy respectable farmer, near 



that Lieutenant Smith, whom he nnentions in 
the ninth stanza, came to Haddiugtv)n after the 
publication of the song, and sent a challenge to 
Skirvin to meet him at Haddington, and an- 
swer for the unworthy manner in which he had 
noticed him in his song. " Gang awa back,** 
said the honest farmer, " and tell INIr. Smith 
that I hae na leisure to come to Haddington ; 
but tell him to come here ; and I'll tak a look 
o' him ; and if 1 think I'm fit to fecht him, I'L 
fecht him ; and if no — I'll do as he did,— /*£ 
rin awa.*' — 



The Chevalier, being void of fear, 

Did march up Birsle brae, man, 
And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent. 

As fast as he could gae, man : 
While General Cope did taunt and mock« 

Wi' roony a loud huzza, man ; 
But e'er next morn proclaim'd the cock, 

We heard another craw, man. 

The brave I ^K-niel, as I heard tell. 

Led Camerons on in clouds, man ; 
The morning fair, and clear the air. 

They loos'd with devilish thuds, man : 
Down guns they threw, and swords they drew 

And soon did chace them aff, man ; 
On Seaton-Crafts they buft their chafts. 

And gart them rin like daft, man. 

The bluff dragoons swore blood and 'oons, 

They'd make the rebels run, man ; 
And yet they flee when them they see, 

And winna fire a gun, man : 
They turn'd their back, the foot they brake. 

Such terror seiz'd them a', man ; 
Some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their breeka 

And some for fear did fa', man. 



The volunteers prick'd up their ears. 

And* vow gin they were crouse, man ; 
But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st. 

They were not worth a louse, man ; 
Maist feck gade hame ; O fy for shame ! 

They'd better stay'd awa', man, 
Than wi' cockaoe to make parade. 

And do nae good at a', man. 

Menteith the great,* when hersell sb— 1» 

Un'wares did ding hini o'er, man j 
Yet wad nae stand to hear a hand, . 

But aff fou fast did scour, man ; 
O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood still. 

Before be tasted meat, man : 
Troth he may brag of his swift nag, 

That bare him aif sae fleet, man. 



• The minister of I^ongformaeus, a volunteer ; who, 

happening to come llie ni^jht before tlv buttle, tipon s 
,, ,,. ^ , , 1 J .1 1 r Hiijhlatid gelding, eas'iig nature al l'res;oii, threw huB 

baddingtOM. J have hea'd the anecdote often, | over, and carried his gun as a iropiiy to Cope's camp. 



.22 



BURNS' WORKS. 



.\nd SlnipMin • keen, to clear the een 

Of lebel.'-: far in wran^-, man, 
Dili iicvfcT sti ive u'i' pistols five, 

But g.dlop'd with the thrang, man : 
He tuinM liis back, and iu a crack 

Was cleanly out of sight, man ; 
And thought it best ; it was nae jest 

Wi* Highlanders to fight, man. 

TVIangst a' the gang nane bade the bang 

But twa, and ane was tane, man ; 
For Canipbell rade, but Myrief staid, 

And sail he paid the kain,^ man; 
Fell sktlps he got, was war than shot 

Frae the sharp -edg'd claymore, man ; 
Frae many a spout came running out 

His reeking- het red gore, man. 

But Gard'ner j) brave did still behave 

Like to a hero bright, man ; 
His courage true, like him were few, 

That still despised flight, man ; 
For king and laws, and country's cause, 

In honour's bed he lay, man ; 
His life, but not his courage, fled, 

While he had breath to draw, man. 

And Major Bowie, that worthy soul. 

Was brought down to the ground, man ; 
His horse being shot, it was his lot 

For to get mony a wound, man : 
Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth, 

Frae whom he cali'd for aid, man, 
Being full of dread, lap o'er his head, 

A;id wadna be gainsaid, man. 

He made Ac Isaste, sae spur'd his btast, 

'Twas little thei e lie saw, man ; 
To Berwick rade, and safely said, 

The Scors weie rebels a*, man ; 
But let that end, for well 'tis kend 

His use and wont to lie, man ; 
The Teague is naught, lie never faught. 

When he had room to flee, man. 



• Another volunteer Presbyterian minister, who 
said he would convince the re'oels of their error by the 
dint of his p:.st(<!s ; ha\!ng, for tliat purnose, two in 
his pockets, tw,) in his holsters, and ont in his belt. 

t Mr. Myrie was a student of physo, from Jamaica; 
he entered as a volunteer in Cope's anny, and was 
miserably mangled by the broadsword. 

J i. e. He suffered severely in the cause. 

II James Gardiner, Colonel of a regiment of horse. 
This gentleman's conduct, howev r celebrated, does 
not seem to have proceeded so in ucli fiom the gene- 
rous ardour of a noble and luiroic mind, as from a 
spirit of religious emhusiasm, and a bigoted reliance 
on the Presbyterian doctrine of predesunation, which 
rendered it a matter of p'crfeci nuiiitcience whether he 
left the field or re;n;'.iritd in it. Being d>"serted by his 
troop, he was killed by a Highlander, wiih a Loehaber 
axe. 

Colonel Gardiner having, when a gay young man, 
at Paris, made an as-ignation with a lady, was, as he 
pretended, not only deterred from keeping his ap- 
pointment, but thoroughly leclaiined from all such 
thoughts in future, by an apparition. See hi« Life by 
Doddridee. 



And Caddell drest, amang the rest^ 

With gun and good claymore, max^ 
On gelding grey he rode that way. 

With pistols set before, man ; 
The cause was good, he'd spend his bloo^ 

Before that he would yield, man ; 
But the night before he left the cor, 

And never fac'd the field, man. 

But gallant Roger, like a soger, 

Stood and bravely fought, man ; 
I'm wae to tell, at last he fell, 

But mae down wi' him brought, mau : 
At point of death, wi' his last breath, 

(Some standing round in ring, man), 
Ou's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat. 

And cry'd, God save the king, man. 

Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs. 

Neglecting to pursue, man. 
About they fac'd, and in great htste 

Upon the booty flew, man ; 
And they, as gain, for all their pain. 

Are deck'd wi spoils of war, man ; 
Fow bald can tell how her nainsell 

Was ne'er sae pra before, man. 

At the thorn- tree, which you may see 

Bewest the meadow-mill, man ; 
There mony slain lay on the plain, 

The clans |)uisuing still, man. 
Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, 

I never saw the like, man ; 
Lost hands and heads cost them their deadli 

That tell near Preston-dyke, man. 

That afternoon, when a' was done, 

I gaed to see the fray, man ; 
But ha J I wist what after past, 

I'd better staid away, man : 
On Seaton sands, wi' nimble harids, 

They pick'd my pockets bare, man; 
But I wish ne'er to drie sic fear. 

For a' the sum and mair, man. 



STREPHON AND L\DIA. 
Tune — " The Gordon's had the Guiding o*t." 

The following account of this song I I ji«i 
from Dr. Blacklock. 

The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the 
song were perhaps the loveliest couple of iheir 
time. The gentleman was commonly known 
by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady wa« 
the Gentle Jemi, celebrated somewhere in Mr. 
Hamilton of Bangour's poems Having fre- 
quently met at public places, they had toi med 
a reciprocal attachment, which their friends 
thought dangerous, as their resources were by 
no means adequate to tlieir tastes and habits of 
life. To elude the bad consequences of such a 
connection, Strephon was sent abroad with a 





" 


SONGS. l^ 






•Mjnjnissioo, and perished in Admiral Ternon's 


8)^16 a* my kin will say and swear. 






expedition to Caithagena. 


I drown'd mysell for sin. — 






The author of the song was William Wallace, 


Hand the better be the brae, 






Esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire. — Burns. 


Janet, Janet, 
Hand the better be the brae, 






All lovely on the sultiy beach, 


My Jo, Janet, 






Expiring Strephon lay, 
No hand the cordial draught to reach, 
Nor rhear the gloomy way. 


Good Sir, for your courtesie. 






Coming through Aberdeen, thes^ 






Ill-fated youth ! no parent nigh, 


For the luve ye bear to me, 






To catc-h tl.y fleeting breath, 
j No bride, to fix thy swimming eye, 


Buy me a pair of sheen, then.— 






Clout the auld, the new are dear, 






Or smooth the face of death. 


Janet, Janet ; 
j4e pair may gain ye haf a year. 






Far distant from the mournful scene, 


My Jo, Janet. 






Thy parent? sit at ease. 
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain, 

And all the spring to please. 
Ill-fated youth ! by fault of friend, 

Not force of foe depress'd, 
"^hou fallNt, alas ! thyseU; thy kind. 


But what if dancing on the green, 
And skipping like a maukin. 

If they should see my clouted shoon, 
Of me they will be taukin'..— . 

Dance ay laiyh, and late at e'en, 
Janet, Janet i 






Thy country, unredress'd • 


Syne a" their fauts will no be seen. 
My Jo, Janet. 

Kind Sir, for your courtesie, 












When ye gae to the Cross, then. 






I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 


For the luve ye bear to me. 

Buy me a j)acing-horse, then. — 






The choius of this song is old. — The rest of 


Pace upo' your spinning-ivheel. 






^ such as it is, is mine — Burns. 


Janet, Janet ; 
Pace upo* your spinning-ivheel. 






I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young. 


My Jo, Janet. 






I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 




•' 




I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin 


My spinning-wheel is aiild and stifl^ 






To take me frae my mammy yet. 


The rock o't winna stand. Sir, 
To keep the temper-pin in tiff, 






I There is a stray, characteristic verse, which 


Employs right aft riiy hand, Sir.— 






1 jught to be restored. 

1 


Mak the best o't that ye can, 
Janet, Janet; 






My minnie coft me a new gown. 


£ut like it nevvf wnle a man. 






The kirk maun hae the gracing ^'t j 


My Jo, Janet. 






i Ware I to lie wi' you. kind Sir, 








I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 












/'m o'er yuung, &c. 


GUDE YILL COMES, AND GUDE 
YILL GOES. 

This song sings to the tune called The bot^ 










MY JO, JANET. 


torn of the punch bowl, of whicii a very gooi 
copy may be found in M' Gitbon'sCoUectioK.-^ 






Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish deli- 


Burns. 






cacy, refused to insert the last stauza of thi- 


Tu7ie—" The Happy Fanner." 






jumorous ballad. — Burns. 


O gude yill comes, arid gude yill goes. 






Sweet Sir, for yo'ir courtesie, 

When ye come by the Bass then, 
For the luve ye bear to me, 


Gude yill gars me sell my hose. 
Sell my hose, and pawn my skoon, 
For gude yill keeps my heart abuon. 






Buy me a keeking-t/lu'^s, then. — 


I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh. 

And they drew teugh and weel eueugh 5 






Keek into tht druw-wdl. 






Janet, Janet ; 


I drank them a' ane by ane. 






And there yell set ynur bonny sell, 


For gude yill keeps my heart abooa. 






My Jo, Janet. 


Gude yill, Sfc. 






Keeking in the draw-well clear, 


I had forty shillin in a clout, 






What if I should fa' in, 


Gude yill gart me pyke thew out ; 






I 





124 



BURNS' WORKS. 



That gear should mouie I thought a sin, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gudt yill, Sfc. 

The meikle pot upon my back, 
Unto the yill-house I did pack ; 
It melted a' wi' the heat o' the moon, 
Gude yill kee|)s my heart aboon. 
Gude y 'U, §*c. 

Gude yill bauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand in the kirk when I hae done, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon.* 
Gude yill, Sfr. 

I wish their fa' may be a gallows, 
Winna gie gude yill to gude fellows. 
And ket'p a soup 'iill the afternoon, 
Gude yiil keeps my heart aboon. 

O yuile yill comes, and gude yill goes, 
Gtide yill yars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Gude yiU. keeps my heart aboon. 



WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD 
DIE. 

Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of 
ancient Scuts poems, says that this song was the 
composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter 
of the first Earl of Marchmant, and wile of 
George Baillie, of Jerviswood — Burns. 

There was aaes a May, and she loo'd na men, 
She biggit '- :r bonny bow'r down in yon glen ; 
But now she cries dool ! and a well-a-day ! 
Come down the green gate, and oome here away. 
But now she cries, Sfc. 

When bonny young Johny came o'er the sea, 
He said he saw nai thing sae lovely as me ; 
He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things ; 
And were na my heart light I wad die. 
JJe heclit me, 8fc. 

«.Ie had a wee titty that loo d na me. 

Because I was twice as bonny as she ; 

She rais'd such a pother 'twixt him and his mo- 
ther, 

That were na my heart light, I wad die. 
She rais'd, Sfc. 

The day it was set, and the bridal to be, 
The wife took a dwara, and lay down to die ; 
She main'd and she grained out of dolour and 

paiuj 
Till he vow'd he never wad see me again. 

She main'd §-c. 



His kin was for ane of a higher degree, 
Sad, What had he to do with the like of me 
Albeit I was bonny, I was na for Johny : 
And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
Albeit Iwa>, §-o. 

They said, I had neither cow nor caff, 
Nor dribbles of drink rins throw the drafl^ 
Nor pickles of meal rins throw the mtU-ee ; 
And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
Nor pickles of, ^c. 

His titty she was baith wylie and slee, 
She spy'd me as I came o'er the lee ; 
And then she ran in and made a loud din. 
Believe your ain een, an ye trow na me. 
A.nd then she, Sfc. 

His bonnet stood ay fou round on his brow ; 
His auld ane looks ay as well as some's new ; 
But now he lets't wear ony gate it will hiug. 
And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. 
Hut now he, Sfc. 

And now he gaes * dandering' about the dykei 
And a' he dow do is to bund the tykes : 
The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee, 
And were na my heart light, 1 wad die. 
The live-lang, §-c. 

Were I young for thee, as 1 hae been. 
We shou'd hae been galloping down on yongreeO) 
And licking it on the lily-white lee ; 
And wow gin I were but young for thee ! 
A.nd linking ^c. 



• The hanil of Burns is visible here. The Ist and 
Itb verses only are the original ones. 



MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF 
YARROW. 

Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account ol 
the palish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the 
Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dry 
hope, and married into the Harden tauiily. HtJr 
daughter was married to a predecessor of the 
present Sir Francis Elliot of Stobbs, and of the 
late Lord Heathtield. 

There is a circumstance in their contract cf 
marriage that merits attention, as it strongly 

marks the predatory spiiit of the times The 

father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter, for 
some time after the marriage ; for which the 
son-in-law binds himself to give him the proliti 
of the first Michaelmas-moon. — Burks. 

Happy's the love which meets return. 
When in soft flames souls equal burn j 
But words are wanting to discover 
The torments of a hopeless lover. 
Ye registers of heav'n, relate. 
If looking o'er the rolls of fate, 
Did you there see me mark'd to manow 
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow ? 



SO?JGS. 



12A 



Ah no ! her form's too heav'nly fair. 
Her love the gods above must share ; 
While mortals with despaif explore her, 
And at distance due adore her. 
O lorely maid ! niy doubts beguile, 
Revive and bless me with a smile : 
Alas ! if not, you'll soon debar a 
Sighing swain the bariks of Yarrow 

Be hush, ye fears, I'll not despair ; 
My Mary's tender as she's fair ; 
Then 1*11 go tell her all mine anguish, 
She is too good to let me languish : 
With success crown'd, I'll not envy 
The folks who dwell above the sky ; 
When Mary Scott's become my marrow, 
We 11 make a paradise in Yarrow. 



THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 

The Highland Queen, music and poetry, was 
composed by a Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Sol- 
bay man of war. — This I had from Dr. Back- 
lock. — Burns. 

Tune—" The Highland Queen." 

No more my song shall be, ye swains, 
Of purling streams or flowrie plains : 
More pleasing beauties now inspire, 
And Phoebus deigns the warbling lyre. 

Divinely aided, thus I mean 
To celebrate, to celebrate. 

To celebrate my Highland Queen. 

In her sweet innocence you'll find 
With fi eeiiom, truth and virtue join'd : 
Strict honour fills her spotless soul, 
And gives a lustre to the whole. 

A match'ess shape and lovely mein 
All centre in, all centre in, 

All centre in my Highland Queen. 

No sordid wish or trifling joy 
Her settled calm of mind destroy : 
From pride and affectation free,. 
Alike she smiles on you and me. 

The brightest nymph that trips the green 
I do pronounce, I do pronounce, 

I do pronounce ray Highland Queen. 

How blest the youth, whose gentle fate 
Has destined to so fair a mate. 
With all those wondrous gifts in store, 
To which each coming day brings more. 

No man more happy can be seen 
Possessing thee, possessing thee, 

Postctiiting thee, my Highland Queen. 



THE MUCKIN' O* 3E0RDIE'S BYRE. 

The chorus of this song is old, — The rest il 
the work of Balloon Tytler.* — Burns. 

Tune—" The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre.* 

The muckin' o' Geordie's byre. 

And the shool an* the graip sae clean, 
Has gar'd me weet my cheeks, 
And greet wi' baith my eeu. 
It was ne^er my father* s will. 
Nor yet my mither's desire, 
That e'er I should fyle my fingers 
Wt muckiri o* Geordie's byre. 

The mouse is a merry beast, 

The moudiwort wants the een. 
But the warld shall ne'er get wit, 
Sae merry as we hae been. 
It was ne'er my father^ s will. 
Nor yet my mithers desire. 
That e'er I should fyle my fingeta 
WV muckin' o' Geordie's byre. 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL, 

ALSO KNOWN AS 

MACPHERSON'S RANT. 

He was a daring robber in the beginning of 
this (eighteenth) century — was condemned to 
be hanged at Inverness. He is said, when un- 
der sentence of death, to have composed thie 
tune, which he called his own Lament, or Fare- 
well. 

Gow has published a variation of this fins 
tune, as his own composition, which he calll 
" The Princess Augusta." — Burns. 

I've spent my time in rioting, 

Debauch'd my health and strength : 
I've pillaged, plundered, murdered, 

But now, alas ! at length 
I'm brought to punishment direct 

Pale death draws near to me ; 
This end I never did project 

To hang upon a tree. 

To hang upon a tree, a tree, 

That cursed unhappy deata ; 
Like to a wolf to worried be, 

And choaked in the breath : 
My very heart would surely break 

When this I think upon, 
Did not my courage singular 

Bid pensive thoughts begone. 



• A singularly learned but unhappy perion. He 
lived at too early a siage of the worltl; oeforc there 
was toleration in Britain, which he was obliged to quit 
(1795) be'-ause of his democratical writings: when he 
took refuop it Salem as a newspaper editor. He also 

-lived befot. Here were Temperance Societies any 

I where. 



126 



BURNS WORKS. 



No man on earth, tnat draweth breath. 

More courage had than I : 
I dared my foes unto their face, 

And would not from them fly. 
This grandeur stout, I did keep out. 

Like Hector, manfully : 
Then wonder one like me so stout 

Should hang upon a tvie. 

The Egyptian band I did command, 

With courage more by far 
Than ever did a general 

His soldiers in the war. 
Being feared by all, both great and small, 

I liv'd most joyfullie : 
Oh, curse uiK)n this fate o' mine, 

To hang upon a tree. 

a8 for my life I do not care, 

If justice would take place, 
And bring my fellow-plunderers 

Unto the saine disgrace : 
But Peter Brown, that notour loon, 

Escaped and was made free; 
Oh, curse upon this fate o* mine, 

To hang upon a tree. 

Both law and justice buried are, 

And fraud and guile succeed ; 
The guilty pass unpunished, 

If money intercede. 
The Laird o' Graunt, that Highland Saunt, 

His mighty majestic, 
He pleads the cause of Peter Brown, 

And lets Macpherson die. 

The destiny of my life contrived, 

By those whom I obliged. 
Rewarded me much ill for good, 

And left me no refuge : 
But Braco Duff, in rage enough, 

He first laid hands on me ; 
And if that death would not prevent, 

Avenged would I be. 

\s for my life, it is but short. 

When I shall he no more ; 
To part with life, I am content, 

As any heretofore. 
Therefore, good people all, take heed, 

This warning rake by me— 
Accoiding to the lives you lead, 

Rewarded you shall be.» 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 

The chorus of tkis is old ; the two stanzas 
are mine. 



* Bums* own set of the Lament, appean liker the 
Batural ifTusions of the high.spirited <r .uinaX, than 
ihis homily 



Up in the morning's no for me. 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a the hills are cover d toV tnaw^ 

Tm sure ifs winter fairly > 

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

BURVS. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY 

BY JOHN HAMILTON. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae noi-th to soutiv 

The drift is driving sairly, 
The sheep are courin' in the heuch : 

O, sirs, its winter fairly. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me. 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
I'd rather gae supperless to my bed 

Than rise in the mornin' early. 

Loud roars the blast amang the woods. 

And tirls the branches barely ; 
On hill and house hear how it thuds. 

The frost is nipping sairly. 
Now up in the mornin's no fof me, 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
To sit a' nicht wad better agree 

Than rise in the mornin' early. 

The sun peeps ower yon southland hi'^ 

Like ony timorous carlie, 
Just blinks a wee, then sinks again, 

And that we find severely. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me, ' 

Up in in the mornin* early ; 
When snaw blaws in at the chimly cheek, 

Wha'd rise in the mornin* early. 

Nae Unties lilt on herlge or bush ; 

Poor things they suffer sairly. 
In cauldrife quarters a' the night, 

A* day they feed but sparely. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me. 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
A pennyless purse I wad i-ather dree 

Than rise in the mornin' early 

A cozie house and canty wife. 

Aye keep a body cheerly ; 
And pantries stou'd wi' meat acid dtiok* 

They answer unco rarely. 
But up in the mornin's no for me. 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
The gowan maun glint on bank and bnw^ 

When I rise in the mornin' early 



SONGS. 



127 



GALA -WATER. 

I <AVK heard a concluding vewe sung to 
Jiesc ?vord<! — it is, 

An* ay she came at e'enin fa*, 

Amang the yellow broom, sae eerie. 

To seek the snood o' silk she tint ;— 

She fan na it, but gat her dearie. — Burns. 

The origin.al song of Gala-water was thus re- 
cited by a resident in that very pastoral district. 

Bonnie lass of Gala- water ; 

Braw, braw lass of Gala- water! 
I would wade the streiim sae deep. 

For ycD braw lass of Gala-water. 

Braw, braT lads of Oala-water ; 

O, braw lads of G da-water ! 
Fll kilt my coat abonn my knee. 

And follow my love thro' the water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonnie blue her een, ray dearie ; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 
I often kiss her till I'm wearie. 

0*er yon bank, and o'er yon brae, 
O'er yon moss amang the heather ; 

ril kilt my coat aboon my knee, 
And follow my love thro' the water 

Dowc amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie •, 

The lassie lost her silken snood, 

That gart her greet till she was wearie. 



DUMBARTON DRUMS. 

This '\b the last of the West Highland airs ; 
and from it, over the whole tract of country to 
the confines of Tweedside, there is hardly a 
tune or song that one can say has taken its ori- 
gin from any place or transaction in that part of 
Scotland. — The old<-st Ayrshire reel, is Stew- 
arton Lasses, which was made by the father of 
the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- 
ham, alias Lord Lyle ; since which period there 
has indeed been local music in that country in 
great plenty. — Jo/niie Faa is the only old song 
which I could ever trace as belonging to the ex- 
tensive county of Ayr. — Bjrns. 

The poet has fallen under a mistake here : — 
the drums here celebrated were not those of the 
town, or garrison of Dumbarton but of the 
regiment commandi-d by Lord Dumbarton — a 
cavalier of the house (»f Douglas — who signalized 
him>^elf on the Jacobite side in 1685. — The old 
song wa» a» follows : — 

Dcmbabton's drums beat bonny, O, 
When thev mind me of ury dear Johnie, O. 



How Jdppy am I, 

When my soldier is by. 
While he kisses and blesses his Annie, O 
'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O, 
For his graceful looks do invite me, O ; 

While guarded in his arms, 

I'll fear no war's alarms. 
Neither danger nor death shall e'er fright me, 

My love is a handsome laddie, O, 
Genteel, but ne'er foppish nor gaudy, O : 

TLo' commissions are dear, 

Yet I'll buy him one this year ; 
For he shall serve no longer a cadie, O. 
A soldier has honour and bravery, O, 
Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery, Ol 

He minds no other thing 

But the ladies or the king ; 
For ev'ry other care is but slavery, O. 

Then I'll be the captain's lady, O ; 
Farewell all my friends and my daddy, O : 

I'll wait no more at home, 

But I'll follow with the drum, 
And whene'er that beats, I'll be ready, O. 
Dumbarton's drums sound bonny, O, 
They are sprightly like my dear Johnie, O t 

How happy shall I be, 

When on my soldier's knee. 
And he kisses and blesses his Annie, O ' 



FOR LACK OF GOLD. 

The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of tbt 
line 



•ay, 



She me forsook for a great duke, 



For Athole's duke she me forsook ; 



which I take to be the original reading. 

These words were composed by the late Dr. 
Austin, physician at Edinburgh. — He had 
courted a lady,* to wh(»m he was shortly to 
have been mairied : but the Duke of AthoU 
having seen her, became so much in love with 
her, that he made proposals of marriage, which 
were accepted of, and she jilted the Doctor.— 
Burns. 

dr. austin. 

Tum—" For Lack of Gold.* 

For lack of gold she has left me, O ; 
And of all that's dear she's bereft me, O ; 
She me forsook for Athole's duke. 
And to endless wo she has left me, O. 
A star and garter have more art 
Than youth, a true and faithful heart ; 



• Jean, daughter of John Drummond, of Megf 
inch« Esq. 



128 



BURNS* WORKS. 



For empty t1^1?s we must part ; 

Foi glittering s^iow she has left me, O. 

No crufl fair shall ever move 
IMy irijiirM neart again to love; 
Thro' distant diiiiates T must rove, 
Sint-e Jeany she has left me, O. 
Ye powers ahove, I to your care 
Resign my faithless lovely fair; 
Your choicest hlessings he her share, 
The* she has ever left me, O ! 



MILL, MILL O. 

Thk original, or at least a song evidently 
prior to Ramsay's, is still extant It runs thus : 

The mill mill O, and the kill kiff O, 

And the copijin o' Pepgi/s wheel O, 
The sack ami the sieve, iiad a she did leavCy 
And dancd the miller's reel O. 

As I cam down yon waterside. 

And hy yoti shellin-hill O, 
There I spied a honnie honnie lass. 

And a lass that I lovM right weel O. — * 



. — Burns. 



MILL, MILL O. 

Benfath a green shade I fand a fair mail 

Was sleeping sound and still-0, 
A* lowing wi' love, my fancy did rove, 

Around her with good will-0 : 
Her bosom I press'd, hut, sunk in her rest, 

She stir'd na my joy to spill-O ; 
While kindly she slept, close to her I crept. 

And kiss'd, and kiss"d her my till-0. 

Oblig'd by command in Flanders to land, 

T' employ my courage and skill-0, 
Frae 'er quietly I st.iw, hoist'd sails and awa, 

For wind blew fair on the hill-0. 
Twa years brought me hame, where loud-frasing 
fame 

Tald uie with a voice right shrill-0, 
My lass, like a fool, had mounted the sto)l, 

Nor ken'd wha'd doue her the ill-O. 

Mair fond of her charms, with my son in her 
arms, 

A. ferlying fpeer'd how she fell-O ; 
Wi' the tear in her eye, quoth she, let me die, 

Sweet Sir, gin I can tell-0. 



Love gae the command, I tnoV Vpr hy h? !-?jai! 

And bad her a' fears expei-O, 
And nae mair look wan, for T \v;)< thf 'nan 

Wha had done her the deed i /se!l-0.. 

My bonnie sweet lass, on the gowany grass. 

Beneath the shilling-hill-O, 
If I did offence, I'se make ye amends, 

Before I leave Peggy's mi1!-0. 
O ! the mill, mill-6, and the kill, kill-f), 

And the cogging of the wheel-0, 
The sack and the sieve, a' thae ye man lea.ve 

And round with a soger reel-O 



* The remaining two stanzas, though pretty enough, 
partake rather too much of the rude simplicity of the 
* Olden time" to be admitted here.— Kd. 



WALY, WALY. 

In the west country I have heard a different 

edition of the second stanza Instcin! of thi6 

four lines, beginning with, '' When ".-icilf 
shells.^' §•<?. the other way ran thus :— ' 

O WHEREFORE need I busk my head, 
Or wherefore need I kame my hair. 

Sin my fause luve has me forsook. 

And says he'll never luve me mair.—. 
Burns. 



WAi.Y waly up the bank. 
And waly waly down the brae, 

And waly waly by yon bum-side, 

Where I and my love were wont to g,nti 

1 leant my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trustie trie ; 
But first it bow'd, and syne it brake, 
And sae my true love did lyghtlie me. 

O waly waly gin love be bonnie 

A little time while it is new ; 
But when its auld it waxeth cauld, 

And fades awa' like mornjng-dew. 
O wherefore shu'd I husk my head ? 

Or wherefore shu'd I kame my hair ? 
For my true love has me forsook. 

And says he'll never loe me mair. 

Now Arthur-seat shall be my be*'. 

The sheits shall neir be fyl'd by me : 
Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, 

Since my true love has forsaken me. 
Marti'mas wind, whan wilt thou Idaw, 

And shake the green leaves aff the trie / 
O gentle death, whan wilt thc« cum ? 

For of my life I am wearie 

*Tis not the frost that freezes fell 
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 

'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 
But my love's heart grown cauld to tatk 

Whan we came in by Glasgowe town. 
We were a comely sight to see ; 



SOJNCiS. 



129 



9Aj love vas clad i' tti' black velvet, 
Aiid I niysell in cramasi:. 

But had I wist b<?fore I kisst. 

That ove had lieen sae ill to win, 
I had loc-kt my heart in a case of gowd, 

And pitin J it wi' a siller pin. 
Oh, oh I if my young babe were bi>rne, 

And set upon the nurse's knee, 
And I mysell were dead and gone, 

For a maid again He oever be ! 



TODLEN HAME. 

This is, perhaps, the first bottle song that 
erer was- composed — Burns. 

When I've a saxpence under my thumb. 

Then I'll get credit in ilka town : 

But ay when I'm poor they bid me gae by; 

O! poverty parts good company. 
Till lien ha rue, tndlen ha me, 
CoufJna my hove come fodlen hame? 

Fair-fa" the goodwife, and send her good sale, 
She gi'es us white bannocks to drink her ale, 
Syne if Ker tippony chance to be sma', 
W»*ll tak a good scour o't, and ca't awa'. 

Todlen itame, todlen /tame. 

As round as a neep, come todlen hame. 

My kimmer and I lay down to sleep. 

And tw.i pintstoups at our bed-feet ; 

And ay when we waken'd, we drank then) dry : 

Wliat think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? 

Todlen but, and todlen ben, 

Sae round as ray loove comes todlen hame. 

Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow, 

Ye're ay sae good humour'd when weeting your 

niou ; 
When w)ber sae sour, ye'll fight wi* a flee, 
That 'tis a biyth sight to the bairns and me, 
When todlen hame, todlen hame, 
When round as a neep ye coine todlen hame. 



CAULD KAIL IN ABtKDEEN. 

THJ^ ong is by the Duke of Gordcn. — The 
vei -e- aie, 

Three's cauid kail in Aberdeea, 

And caKtocks in Strabogie ; 
When ilka lad iniun hae his last, 

Then fye, gie me my cogie. 
My coyie. Sirs, my coijie. Sirs, 

I cannot want my cogie : 
Jwadna yie my thrte-girrd stoup 

for a' th^ queries on B'yie. 



There s Johnie Smith has got a wife 
That scrimps him o' his cogie, 

If she were mine, upon my life 
I'd <louk her in a bogie. 

My cogie, Sirs, Sfc — Burns. 



CAULD KAIL IN ABERDliEI*. 

There's cauld kail m Aberdeen, 
A nd castocks in Stra'bogie ; 
Gin I but hae a bonny lass, 
Ye're welcome to your cogie : 
And ye may sit up a' the night, 
And drink till it be braid day-light; 
Gie me a lass baith clean and tight. 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 

In cotillons the French excel ; 

John Bull loves countra-dances ; 

The Spaniards dunce fandangos well ; 

Mynheer an allemande prances : 

In foursome reels the Scotch delight, 

The threesome maist dance wond'rous ifSgfili j 

But twasonie's ding a' out o' sight, 

Danc'd to the Reel of Bogie. 

Come, lads, and view your partners well* 
Wale each a biythsome rogie ; 
I'll tak this lassie to mysel. 
She seems sae keen and vogie ! 
Now piper lad bang up the spring ; 
The coiintra fashion is the thing, 
To prie their mou's e'er we begin 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 

Now ilka lad has got a lass. 
Save yon auld doited fogie ; 
And ta'en a fling upo' the grass, 
As they do in Stra'bogie : 
But a* the lasses look sae fain. 
We canna think oursel's to hain, 
For they maun hae their c«nie agaia 
To dance the Reel of Bogie. 

Now a' the lads hae done their best, 

Like true men of Stra'bogie ; 

We'll stop awhile and tak a rest. 

And tipple out a cogie : 

Come now, my lads, and tak your gUo^ 

i\nd try ilk other to surpasn, 

In wishing health to every lass 

To dance the Reel of Bogie. 



WE RAN AND THEY RAN. 



The author of We ran and they ran, COA 
ihey ran awl we ran, Sfc. was the late Rer 
Murdoch M t.«nnAO, minister at Crathie, O*** 
side. — Burns 
MS 



ISO 



BURNS' WORKS 



Theie*8 some sav that we wan, 

Some say that they wan, 
Some say that nane wan at a', man; 

But one thing I'm sure, 

That at Sheriff Muir * 
A battle there was, which I saw, man ; 

And we rn %, and they ran, and they ran, 
and we ran, and we ran, and they ran atca*, 
man. 

Brave Argyle f and Belhaven, I 

Not like frighted Leven, § 
Which Rothes Ij and Haddington f sa', man ; 

For they all with Wightman ** 

Advanced on the right, man, 
While others took flight, being ra', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, §*c. 

Lord Roxburgh +f was there. 

In order to share 
With Douglas, || who stood not in awe, man, 

Volunteerly to ramble 

With lord Loudon Campbell, 1| [[ 
Brave Hay §§ did suffer for a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, §*c, 

Sir John Schaw, ^f that great knight, 

Wi' broad-sword most bright. 
On horseback he briskly did charge, man ; 

An hero that's bold, 

None could him with-hold, 
He stoutly encounter'd the targemen. 
And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. 

For the cowardly Whittam, *** 

For fear they should cut him, 
Seeing glittering broad-swords wi* a pa*, man. 

And that in such thrang, 

Made Baird edicang, ff f 
And from the brave clans ran awa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 



• The battle of Dumblain or Sheriff-muir was fought 
the 13th of November ITIS, between the Earl of Mar, 
for the Chevalier, and the Duke of Argyle for the go- 
vernment. Both sides claiiried the victory, the left 
wing of either army being routed. The capture of 
Preston, It is very remarkable, happened on the same 
day. 

t John (Campbell) ".'d Duke of Argyle, commander- 
in-chief of the governnient forces ; a nobleman of great 
talents and integrity, much respected by all parties : 
died 1745. 

t John (Hamilton) Lord Belhaven ; served as a vo- 
lunteer ; and had the command of a troop of horse 
raised by the county o(, Haddington : perished at sea, 
1721. 

9 David (Lesly) Earl of Leven ; for the government. 

II John (Lesly) Earl of Rotlies; for the government. 

i Thcimas (Hamilton) Earl of Haddington; for the 
governnrent. 

** Major-General Joseph Wightman. 

tf John (Ker» first Duke of Roxburgh; for the go- 
ment. 

tt Archibald (Douglas) Duke of Douglas. 

nil Hugh (Campbell) Eail of Loudon. 

(j\ Archibald Earl of Hay, brother to the Duke of 
4rgyle. He was dangerously wounded. 

IT An officer in the troop of gentleman volunteers, 

*♦* Major-general Thomas Whitham. 

♦tt '• e. Akt du camp. 



Brave Mar • a jd Panmure f- 

Were firm I am sure. 
The latter was kidnapt awa', man. 

With brisk men about, 

Brave Haj-ry \ retook 
His brother, and laugh t at them a', 
And we ran, and they ran, ifc. 



Grave Marshall g and Lithgow, § 

And Glengary's^ pith too, 
Assisted by brave Loggie-a-man, ** 

And Gordons the bright 

So boldly did fight, 
The" redcoats took flight and awa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, §*c. 

Strathmore ff and Clanronald \\ 
Cry'd still, advance, Donald ! 

Till both these heroes did fa', man ; |[ jf 
For there was such hashing. 
And broad-swords a clashing. 

Brave Forfar §§ himself got a cla*, man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 



* John (Erskine) Earl of Mar, commander-m-^irf 
of the Chevalier's army; a nobleman of great spirit, 
honour, and abilities. He died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 
1732. 

t James (Maulc) Earl of Panmure ; died at Paria^ 
175*3. 

^ Honourable Harry Maule, brother to the EarL 
The circumstance here alluded to is thus related in the 
Earl of Mar's printed account of the engagement :— • 
" The prisoners taken by us were very civilly used, 
and none of them stript Some were allow'd to return 
to Stirling upon their parole, &c. . . The few prison- 
ers taken by the enemy on oui left were most of them 
stript and wounded after taken. The Earl of Pan- 
mure being first of the prisoners wounded after taken. 
They having refused his parole, he was left in a vil- 
lage, and by the hasty retreat of the enemy, upon the 
approach oifour army, was rescu'd by his brother and 
his servants " 

II George (Keith) Earl Marischalf, then a youth at 
college He died at his government of Neufehatel in 
177L His brother, the celebrated Ma(^hall Keith, wa« 
with him in this battle. 

^ James (Livingston) Earl of Calendar and Linlith- 
gow : attainted. 

If Alexander M'Donaldof Glengary, laird of a clan; 
a brave and spirited chief: attainted. 

** Thomas Drummond of Logie-.-Mmond; pom- 
manded the two battalions of Drummonds. He was 
wounded. 

t+ John (Lyon) Earl of Strathmore; "a man of 
good parts, of a most amiable disposition and charac- 
ter." 

rt Ranald M'Donald, Captain of Clan Ranald. 
N- B. The Captain of a clan was one who, being next 
or near in blood to the Chief, headed them in his infan 
cy or absence 

II II " We have lost to our regret, the Earl of Strath, 
more and the Captain of Clan Ranald." Earl of Mar's 
Letter to the Governor of Perth. Again, printed ac- 
count : — " We cann't find above 60 of our men in all 
j kill'd, among whom were the Earl of Strathmore f and! 
I the Captain of Clan Ranald, both much lamented." 
I The latter, " for his good parts and gentle accomplish- 
ments, was look'd upon as the most gallant and gener- 
ous younsj. gentleman among the clans. . . . He was 
lamented by both parties that knew him." 

His servant, who lay on the field watching his aead 
body, being asked next day who that was, answered. 
He was a man yesterday.— ^o^we/rj Jmirney to the Hf 
brides, p. 359. 

{\ Archibald (Douglas) Earl of Forfar, who com - 
manded a regiment in the Liuke's army. He is said t« 
have been shot in the knee, and to have had ten oi 
twelve cuts in his head from the broad-awords. H« 
died a few days after of his wounds. 



SONGS. 



13' 



Lord Perth * stood the storm, 

Seaforth f but lukewarm, 
Kilsyth I and Strathaliaa | not sla', aan ; 

And Hamilton § pled 

The men were not bred, 
For he had no fancy to fa', man. 

And we ran, and they ran^ ^, 

Brave generous Southesk, ^ 

Tilebairn ** was brisk. 
Whose fcther indeed would not dra*, man, 

Into the same yoke, 

"Which serv'd for a cloak, 
To keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man. 
And we ran, and ihey ran, 8fc. 

Lord RoUo -f-j- not fear'd, 

Kintore \\ and his beard, 
Pitsligo II ll and Ogilvie § § a', man, 

And brothers Balfours, \ ^ 

They stood the first show'rs, 
Clackmannan and Burleigh ♦•• did cla', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, S^c. 

But Cleppan f f f acted pretty, 

And Strowan the witty, \\\ 
A poet that pleases us a', man ; 

For mine is but rhime, 

In respect of what's fine. 
Or what he is able to dra', man. 

And we ran, and they ran, ^c. 



* James Marquis of Drummond, son of James 
(Dnimmond) Duke of Perth, was lieutenant-general 
of horse, and " behaved with great gallantry." rie 
was attiinted, but escaped to France, where he soon 
after died. 

t William (Mackenzie) Earl of Seaforth. He was 
attainted, and died in 174". 

± William (Livingston) Viscount Kilsyth: attainted. 

IJ William (Drummond Viscount Strathallan ; 
whose sense of loyalty could scarcely equal the spirit 
and activity he manifested in the cause. He was ta- 
ken prisoner in this battle, which he survived to per- 
ish in the still more fatal one of Culloden.muir. 

§ Lieutenant-general George Hamilton, command- 
ing under the Earl of Mar. 

^ James (Carnegie) Ear! of Southe.sk ; was attaint, 
ed, and, escaping to France, died there in 1729. 

•» William (\lurray) MarquLsof Tullibardin, eldest 
Bon to the Duke of Athole. Hav'mg been attainted, 
he was taken at sea in 1746, and died soon after, of a 
flux, in the Tower. 

tt Robert (Hollo) Lord RoUo; " a man of singular 
merit and great integrity :" died in 1758. 

J+ William (Keith) Earl of Kintore. 

Ill) Alexander (Forbes) Lord Pitsligo; "a man of good 
parts, great honour and spirit, and universally beloved 
and esteeme<l." He was engaged again in the affair of 
1745, for which he was attainted, and died at an ad- 
vancod age in 1762. 

4^ James Lord Ogilvie, eldest son of David (Ogil- 
vie) Earl of .Xirly. He was attainted, but afterwards 
pardoned. His fatlier, not dra'irig into the tame yoke, 
.aved the estate. 

IK Some relations it is supposed of the Lord Bur- 
leigh. 

♦*• Robert (Balfour) Lord Burleigh. He was at- 
tainted, and died in 1757- 

t+t Major William Clephane, adjutant-general to 
the Marquis of Drummond. 

tt J Alexand r Robertson of Struan ; who, having 
experienced every vicissitude of life, with a stoical 
firmness. Uied in peace 1749. He was an excellent 
net, an4 h?? left elegies worthy of TibuUus. 



For Huntley ■ and Sinclair \ 
They bnth play'd the tiuclair, 

With coi:sciences black like a era' matti 
Some Angus and Fifemen 
They ran for their life, man, 

And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. 

Then Laurie the traytor, 

Who betray'd his master, 
His king and his country and a', man, 

Pretending Mar might 

Give order to fight. 
To the right of the army awa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, 8fC. 

Then Laurie, for fear 

Of wh.it he might hear. 
Took Drummond's best horse and awa*. 

Instead o' going to Perth, 

He crossed the Firth, 
Alongst Stirling-bridge and awa', man, 
^ind we ran, and they ran, §*c. 

To London he press'd. 

And there he address'd, 
That he behav'd best o' them a', man ; 

And there without strife 

Got settled for life. 
An hundred a year to his fa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, §*c. 

In Burrowstounness 

He resides wi' disgrace. 
Till his neck stand in need of a dra% m&l 

And then in a tether 

He'll swing frae a ladder, 
[And] go aff the stage with a pa', 

And we ran, and they ran, |rc« 

Rob Roy stood watch 

On a hill for to catch 
The booty for ought that I sa*, ma% 

For he ne'er advanc'd 

From the place he was stanc'd, 
Till nae mair to do there at a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran^ S^c. 



So we a' took the flight. 

And Moubray the wright ; 
But Letham the smith was a bra' 

For he took the gout. 

Which truly was wit. 
By judging it time to withdra', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, ^c, 

And trum;;et M'Lean, 
Whose breeks were not clean. 



♦ Alexander (Gordon) Marquis of Huntley, eldest 
son to the Dulie of Gordon, who, accordirig to the 
usual policy of his country, (of which we here meet 
with several other instances), remained neutral. 

t John Sinclair, Esq. commonly called Master Oi 
Sinclair, eldest son of Henry Lord Sinclair ; was at 
tainted, but afterwards pard ned, and died in n^(^. 
The estate was preserved of couim. 



132 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Thrc/ ni isfortune lie tappen'd to fa*, man, 

By saving his neck 

His trumpet did break, 
Came aflF without musick at a*, man.* 
And we ran, and they ran, 8fC. 

So there such a race was, 

As ne'er in that place was, 
And as little chase was at a', man ; 

Frae ither they * run* 

Without touk o' drum 
They did not make use of a pa', man. 

And we ran, and thej ran, and they ran, 
and we ran, and we ran, and they run awa*, 
men. 



BIDE YE YET. 

There is a beautiful song to this tune, be- 
ginning, 

Alas, my son, you little know— 

which is the composition of a Miss Jenny 
Graham of Dumfries. — Burns. 



Alas! my son, you little know 
The sorrows that from wedlock flow : 
Farewell to every day of ease, 
When you have gotten a wife to please. 
Sue bide you yet, and bide you yet. 
Ye little ken what's to betide you yet . 
The liaif of that will yane you yet. 
If a wayward wife obtain you yet. 

Your experience is but small, 
is yet you've met with little thrall ; 
The black cow on you-r foot ne'er trod, 
Which gars you sing alang the road. 

Sae bide you yet, 8fc, 

Sometimes the rock, sometimes the rrel, 
Or some piece of the spinning-wheel, 
She will drive at you wi' good will, 
And then she'll send you to the de'il. 

Sae bide you yet, §*c. 



When I like you was young end free* 
T valued not the proudest she ; 
Like you I vainly boasted then. 
That men alone were horn to reign. 

Sae bide you yet, Sfe. 

Great Hercules and Sampson too. 
Were stronger men than I or you ; 
Yet they were baffled by their dears, 
And felt the distaff and the sheers. 

Sae bide you yet, §•«. 

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls, 
Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls 
But nought is found by sea or land, 
That can a wayward wife withstand. 

'" le bide you yet, ^ 



lifDE YE YET. 

OLD SET. 

Gin I had a wee house and a canty wee fi'J9 
A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire, 
A bonny wee yardie aside a wee burn ; 
Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and 
Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet. 
Ye little ken what may betide ye yet, 
Some hnnny wee body may be my lot, 
And I'll be canty wi' thinking o't. 

When I gang afield, and come home at e ea, 
I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean | 
And a bonny wee bairne upon her knee. 
That will cry, papa, or daddy, to me. 

Sae bide ye yet, Sfc. 

And if there happen ever to he 
A diff'rence atween my wee wifie and me. 
In hearty good humour, although she be tea:^^ 
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd. 
Sae bide ye yet, Sfc. 



* The particulars of this anecdote no where appear. 
The hero is supposed to be thp same Jo/in M'Lean, 
trumpii, who was sent frorp, Lord Mar, then at Perth, 
with a letter to the Duke of Argv!<", at Sii' lin^ camp, 
)n the 50th of October, f^dt i 'Urinal Letters 1730. 
Two copies, however, printed not long atter 1715, 
read, '• And trumpet Marine." 

In 1782 the son of this Trumpeter Marine told the 
Ear! of Haddington (then Lord Binning) th,it the first 
circuit he ever attended, as one of his Majesty's house- 
noid trumpeters, was the Northern, in the year 1716, a- 
long with old Lord Miuto. That the reason of his going 
there was, that the circuit immediately preceding, his 
fathei had been so harassed in every town he went 
through, by the people singing his verse, " And trum- 
pet Marine, w/>i»e breeles," &c. of this song, that he 
«wore hr vfiniid never go again; and actually resigned 
bi? situaiion in favour of his son. — Campbell's History 
<t Poetry in Scotland. 



THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKI^ 
TOW. 

BT ALEXANDER KOSS. 

There was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow. 

An' she wad gae try the spinning o't, 

She louted her down, an* her rock took a low. 

And that was a bad beginning o't : 

She sat an' she grat, an' she flet and she flang. 

An' she threw an' she blew, an' she wrigl'd an' 

wrang, 
An' she choked, an* boaked, an' cry'd like fi 

mang, 
Alas ! for the dreary spinning o't. 

I've wanted a sark for these eight years an* tm. 
An* this was to be the beginning o't. 



SONGS. 



i3S 



But T vow I shall want it for as lang again, 

Or ever I try the spioalng o't ; 

Foi never since ever they ca'd me as they ca' 

me. 
Did sic a misuap an* misanter befa* me, 
But ye shall hae leave baith to bang me an* 

draw me, 
The neist time I try the spinning o't. 

[ hae keeped my house fur these three score o* 

\ ears, 
An' ay 1 kept free o* the spinning o't. 
But how I was sarked foul fa' them that apeers, 
For it minds me upo' the beginning o't. 
But our women are now a days grown sae bra', 
That ilka a maun hae a sark an' some hae twa, 
The warlds were better when ne'er an awa' 
Had a rag but ane at the beginning o't. 

Foul fa' her that ever advis'd me to spin, 
That had been so lang a beginning o't, 
I mijjht well have ended as I did begin. 
Nor have got sick a skair with the spinning o't. 
But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her 

ain weerd, 
I thought on a day, it should never be speer'd. 
How loot ye the low take your rock be the 

beard. 
When ye yeed to try the spinning o't ? 

The spinning, the spinning it gars my heart son. 

When I think upo' the beginning o't, 

I thought ere I died to have anes made a web, 

But stili I had weers o' the sj)inning o't. 

But had I nine dather^, as I hae but three, 

The safest and soundest advice I cud gee. 

Is tliat they frae spmuing wad keep their hands 

free, 
For fear of a bad beginning o't. 

Yet in spite of my counsel if they will needs run 
The drearysome risk of the spinning o't. 
Let them seek out a lythe in the heat of the sun, 
And there venture o' the beginning o't: 
But to do as I did, alas, and awow ! 
To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low. 
Says, that I had but little wit in my pow. 
And as little ado with the spinning o't. 

But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves 
My heirt to think o' the beginning o't. 
Had 1 won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves, 
Then there had been wuid o' the spinning o't ; 
This I wad ha' washen an' hleech'd like the snaw, 
.\nd o' my twa gardies like moggans wad draw, 
An' then fouk wad say, that auld Girry was bra'. 
An' a' was upon her ain spinning o't. 

But gin I wad shog about till a new spring 
I should yet hae a bout of the s|)inning o't, 
A mutchkin of linseed I'd i' the yerd fling. 
For a' the wan chaosie beginning o't. 
»'ll gar my ain Tdmruie gae down to the how. 
An i-ut me a 'ock of a widdershines grow. 



Of good ranty-tree for to carry my tow. 

An' a spindle of the same for the twining o't. 

For now when I mip* \- oet Maggy Grim 
This morning just {^ > begins ing o •., 
She was never ca'd .^ancy, out canny an' slim. 
An' sae it has fair'd , my spinning o't • 
But an' my new rock were anes cutted an' dry, 
I'll a' Maggies can an' her cantraps defy, 
An' but onie sussi( the spinning I'll try. 
An* ye's a' hear 6 the beginning o't. 

Quo' Tibby, her dather, tak tent fat ye say, 
The nevei- a ragg we'll be seeking o't, 
Gin ye anes begin, ye'll tarveal's night an' day, 
Sae it's vam ony mair to be speaking o't. 
Since lambas I'm now gaing thirty an' twa. 
An' never a dud sark had I yet gryt or sma'. 
An' what war am I? I'm as warm an' as bra^ 
As thrumniy tail'd Meg that's a spinner o't. 

To labor the lint-land, an' then buy the seed. 
An' then to yoke me to the harrowing o't. 
An' syn loll amon't an' pike out ilka Wied, 
Like fwine in a sty at the farrowing o't ; 
Syn powing and ripling an' steeping, an' then 
To gar's gae an' spread it upo' the cauld plain, 
An' then after a' may be labor in vam, 
When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o't. 

But tho' it should anter the weather to byde, 
Wi' beetles we're set to the drubbing o't, 
An' then frae our fingers to gnidge alf the hide, 
With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't. 
An' syn ilka tait maun be heckl'd out throw, 
The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow, 
Syn on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low. 
The back o' my hand to the spinning o't. 

Quo' Jenny, I think 'oman ye're i' the right. 
Set your feet ay a spar to the spinning o't. 
We may tak our advice frae our ain niither*i» 

fright 
That she gat when she try'd the beginning o't. 
But they'll say that auld fouk are twice bairns 

indeed, 
An' sae she has kythed it, but there's nae need 
To sickan an amshack that we drive our head. 
As langs we're sae skair'd fra the spinning o't. 

Quo' Nanny the youngest, I've now heard 

you a', 
An' dowie's your doom o' the spinning o't. 
Gin ye, fan the cows flings, the cog c.ist awa'. 
Ye may see where ye'll lick up your winning 

o't. 
But I see that but spinning I'll never be bra', 
But gae by the name of a dilp or a da, 
Sae lack where ye like I shall anes shak a fa'. 
Afore I be dung with the spinning o't. 

For well I can mind nte when black Willie BeL 
Had Tibbie th^re just at the winning o't, 
What blew up the bargain, she kens well hersell. 
Was the want uf the kn.u.k of the spinning o't 



134 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An* noxr, poor 'oman. for ought that I ken, 
She may never get sic an oflFer again, 
But pine away bit an' bit, like Jenkin's hen, 
An* naething to wyte but tlie spinning o*t. 

But were it for naething, but just this alane, 

I shall yet hae about o* the spinning o't. 

They may cast me for ca'ing me black at the 

bean. 
But nae cause I shun*d the beginning o't. 
But, be that as it happens, I care not a strae. 
But nane of the lads shall hae it to say, 
When they come till woo, she kens naething 

avae, 
Nor has onie ken o' the spinning o't. 

In the days they ca'd yore, gin auld fouks had 

but won, 
To a suikoat hough side for the winning o't, 
Of coat raips well cut by the cast o' their bun, 
They never sought mair o' the spinning o't. 
A pair of grey hoggers well clinked benew, 
Of nae other lit but the hue of the e\v, 
With a pair of rough rullions to scuff thro* the 

dew, 
Was the fee they sought at the beginning o't. 

But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we, 
An* how get we that, but the spinning o't? 
How can we hae face for to seek a gryt fee, ^ 
Except we can help at the winning o't ? 
An' we maun hae pearlins and mabbies an' 

cocks, 
An* some other thing that the ladies ca' smoks, 
An' how get we that, gin we tak na our rocks. 
And pow what we can at the spinning o't ? 

*Tis needless for us for to tak our remarks 
Frae our mither's miscooking the spinning o't, 
She never kend ought o* the gueed of the sarks, 
Frae this aback to the beginning o't. 
Twa thn^ ell of plaiden was a' that was sought 
By oui auld warld bodies, an' that boot be 

bought, 
For in ilka town sickan things was nae wrought, 
So little they kend o' the spinning o't. 



HOOLY AND FAIRLY. 

It is remark-worthy that the song of Hooly 
ind Fairly, in all the old editions of it, is cal- 
ed The Drunken Wife o\ Galloway, which 
ocalizes it to that country —Burns. 

THE DRUNKEN WIFE O* GALLOWAY. 

Oh ! what had I to do for to marry ? 
My wi& she drinks naething but sack and Ca- 
nary, 
( to her friends complain d right ertily, 
O ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and /amy, 

Hon/y and fairly, hooly and fairly, 
9 / gin my wife ivad drirJc / «'., ;nd J airly, \ 



First she drank crun. mie, and syne she dranir 

garie ; 
Now she has druken my bonny grey mane, 
That carried me thro* a' the dubs and the larift 
O I gin, 8fc. 

She has druken her stockins, sa has she hei 

shoon, 
And she has druken her bonny new gown ; 
Her wee bit dud sark that co'erd her fu* rarely 
O ! gin, Sfc. 

If she*d drink but her ain things I wad na mucl 

care, 
But she drinks my claiths I canna weel spare, 
When I*m wi' my gossips, it angers me sairly, 
O I gin, Sfc. 

My Sunday's coat she's laid it a wad, 
The best blue bonnet e'er was on my head ; 
At kirk and at market I'm cover'd but barely, 
O I gin, Sfc. 

The verra gray mittens that gaed on my ban's, 
To her neebor wife she has laid them in pawns? 
My bane-headed stuff that I lo'ed sae dearly, 
O ! gin, 8fc. 

If there's ony siller, she maun keep the purse ; 
If I seek but a baubee she'll scauld and she'D 

curse, 
She gangs like a queen — I scrimped and sparely, 
O I gin, Sfc. 

I never was given to wrangling nor strife, 
Nor e'er did refuse her the comforts of life ; 
Ere it come to a war I'm ay for a parley. 
O f gin, SfC. 

A pint wi' her cummers I wad her allow, 
But when she sits down she fills herself fou ; 
And when she is fou she's unco camstarie, 
O I gin, Sfc. 

Wlien she comes to the street she roars and 

she rants. 
Has nae fear o' her neebors, nor minds the 

house wants ; 
She rants up some fool-sang, like " Up y'tl 

heart, Charlie.** 

O I gin, 8fc. 

And when she comes hame she lays on the lad^ 
She ca*8 the lasses baith limmers and jads, 
And I, my ain sell, an auld cuckold carlie, 
O ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly , 

Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 
O ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly. 



SONGS 



ISi 



THE OLD MAN'S SONG 

BY THE REV J. SKINNER. 

Tune—*' Dumbarton Drums." 

Of WH7 should old age so much wound us !* 
Tnere is n«>thing in it all to confound 'is : 

For how happy now am 1, 

With my v>ld wife sitting by, 
And our hairtis and our oys f all around us ; 

For how happy now am I, Sfc. 

We began in the warld wi* naething, 
And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing ; 
We niiide use of what we had, 
An<i our thankful hearts were glad ; 
When we got the bit meat and the claithing. 
We made use of what we had, Sfc. 

We have liv'd all our life-time contented, 
Sime the day we became first acquainted : 

It's true we've been liut poor, 

And we are so to this hour ; 
But we never yet repin'd or lamented. 

Ifg true we've been but pour, 8fc. 

When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit, 
Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit ; 

But we always gave a share 

Of the little we cou'd spare, 
When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to grant it. 

But we always gave a share, &^c. 

We never laid a scheme to be wealthy, 
By means that were cunning or stealthy ; 
But we always had the bliss, 
(And what further could we wiss), 
To be pleas'd with ourselves, and be healthy. 
But we always had the bliss, ^c. 

What tho' we cannot boast of our guineas, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies ; 

And these, I'm certain, are 

Mort lesirable by far 
Than a bag full of poor yellow sleenies. 

And these, I'm certain, are, 8^c. 

We have seen many wonder and ferly. 
Of changes that almost are yearly. 

Among rich folks up and down, 

Both in country and in town, 
Who now live l)ut scrimply and barely, 

Amcn^ ~-''h folks up and down, 8^c. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity ? 

▲ Btraiten'd life we see- is no rarity ; 
Indeed we've been in want, 
And our living's been but scant, 

Yet we ne» tr were reduced to need charity. 
Iitdeed we've been in want, SfC. 



• Thit tune requires O to be added at the end of 
eaca of the long hues, but in reading the tong the O 
li better omitted. 

t Ojj3 — Grand-children. 



In this house we first came tt«gethei, 
Where we've long been a father and raither * 

And tho' not of stone and lime. 

It wil last us all our time ; 
And, I hope, we shall ne'er need anither. 

And tho' not of stone and lime, |rc. 

And when we leave this poor habitation, 
We'll depart with a good commeLdation ; 
We'll go hand in hand, I wiss. 
To a better house than this, 
To make room for the next generation. 

Then ivhy should old age so much wound m» 
There is nothing in it all to confound us t 
For how happy now am I, 
With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oys all around us. 



TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. 

A PART of this old song, according to ths 
English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeai^e. *•«» 
Burns. 

In winter when the rain rain'd cauld, 

And frost and snaw on ilka hill, 
And Boreas, with his blasts sae bauld, 

Was threat' oing a' our ky to kill : 
Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strife* 

She said to me right hastily. 
Get up, goodman, save Cromy's life, 

And tak your auld cloak about ye. 

My Cromie is an useful cow. 

And she is come of a good kyne ; 
Aft has she wet the bairns' mou, 

And I am lait'a that she shou'd tyne* 
Get up, goodman, it is fou time, 

The sun shines in the lift sae hie ; 
Sloth never uiade a gracious end, 

Go tak your auld cloak about ye. 

My cloak was anes a good grey cloak 
When it was fitting for my wear ; 

But now it's scantly worth a groat, 
Foi I have worn't this thirty yeir ; 

Let's spend the gear tliat we have won, 
We little ken the day we'll die : 

Then I'll be proud, smce I have sworn 
i o have a new cloak about me. 



* In the drinking scene in Othello: I«gOBUig%<w 

King Stephen was a worthy peer. 

His breeches cost him but a ci-own j 
He held them sixpence all too dear. 

With thnt he called the tailor lown. 
He was a wight of high renown. 

And thou art but of low degree ; 
'TJ8 pride that pulls the country down, 

Then take tiiine auld cloak about thee. 

7 he old song from which these stanzas were takes 
waf recovered by Dr. Percy, and preserved by him » 
hi< litliQu^s of A.iu:ieiU Pottru- 





. 1 




136 BURNS' 


WORKS. 




lu dajrs when our king Robert rang, 


** Yestreen I lay in a well-made bed. 




His trews they cost but haff a crown ; 


And my good lord beside me 5 




He said they wvre a groat o'c dear, 


This night I'll ly in a tenant's barn, 




And call'd the taylor thief and loun. 


Whatever shall betide me." 




He was the king that wore a crown, 






And thou the man of laigh degree. 


Come to your bed, says Johny Fua, 




Tis pride puts a* the country down, 


Oh ! come to your bed, my deary ; 




Sae tak thy auld clo;ik about thee. 


For I vow and swear by the hilt of my swoT^ 
That your loid shall nae mair come near yft 




Every land has its ain laugh, 






Ilk kind of corn it has its hool, 


" I'll go to bed to my Johny Faa, 




I think the warld is a' run wrang, 


And ril go to bed ij my deary ; 




When ilka wife her man wad rule ; 


For I vow and swear by what past yestreen, 




Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 


That my lord shall nae mair coine near me 




As they are ginled gallantly, 


. 




While I sit hurklen in the ase ; 


" I'll mak a hap to my Johny Faa, 




I'll have a new cloak about me. 


And I'll mak a hap to my deary ; 
And he's get a* the coat gaes round. 




Goodman, I wate 'tis thirty years. 


And my lord shall nae mair come near me. 




Siuce we did ane anither ken ; 






And we have had between us twa. 


And when our lord came home at e'en, 




Of lads and bonny lasses ten : 


And speir'd for his fair lady. 




Now they are women grown and men, 


The tane she cry'd, and the other reply'd, 




I wish and pray well may they be ; 


She's away wi* the gypsie laddie. 




And if you prove a good husband, 




: 


E'en tak your auld cloak about ye. 


«♦ Gae saddle to me the black, black steed. 




Gae saddle and mak him ready ; 


Bell my wife, she loves na strife ; 


Befoie that 1 either eat or sleep, 




But she wad guide me, if she can. 


I'll gae seek my fair lady." 




And to maintain an easy life. 




I aft maun yield, tho' I'm goodman . 


And we were fifteen well-made men» 


1 


Nought's to be won at woman's hand. 


Altho' we were nae bonny ; 


1 


Unless ye give her a* the plea ; 


And we were a' put down for ane. 


Then I'll leave aff where I began. 


A fair young wanton lady. 




And tak my auld cloak about me. 








TO DAUNTON ME. 




JOHNY FAA, OR THE GYPSIE 






LADDIE. 


The two following old stanzas to this tunt 






have some merit : — Burns. 




The people in Ayrshire begin this song — 


To daunton me, to daunton me. 




The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yett. 


ken ye wliat it is that'll daunton me ?— 
There's eighty eight and eighty nine. 




They have a great many more stanzas in this 


And a' that I hae born sinsyne. 




song than 1 ever yet saw in any printed copy. 


There's cess and press and Presbytrie, 




The castle is still remaining at JNIayboIe, where 


I think it will do meikle for to daunton me. 




his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and 






kept her for life — Burns. 


But to wanton me, to wanton me, 

ken ye what it is that wad wanton me?— 




The gypsies came to our good lord s gate. 


To see gude corn upon the rigs. 




And wow but they sang sweetly ; 


And banishment amang the Whigs, 




They sang sae sweet, and sae very complete. 


And right restored where rigl. ol.u oe, 




That down came the fair ladie. 


I think it would do meikle for to wanton um 




And she came tripping down the stair, 
And a* her mai,ds before her ; 










As soon as they saw her weelfar'd face. 
They coost the glamer o'er her. 


TO DAUNTON ME. 
There is an old set of the song : not politi 




'♦ Gar tak fra me this gay mantile, 


cal, but very independent. It runs thus ;— - 




And bring to me a plairlie ; 


■ 




For if kith and kin and a' had sworn, 


The blude rert rose at Yule may blaw- 




I'll follow the gypsie laddie. 


The siumier hlies blume in snaw. 


L 


J 



SONGa 



iS7 



The frost may freeze the detpet^t sea, 
But an aulfi iiiiin shall never tiitunton me. 
To (lauiiton nie. and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatterin' tongue, 
That is the thing ye ne'er shall see, 
Fo. an aiild man shall never daunton me. 

For a' his meal, for a* his maut, 
For a' his fresh beef, and his saut, 
For a' his gowd and white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton nne. 
To daunton me, &c. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes. 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes, 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, S(C. 

He hirples twa fau'd as he dow. 

Wi' his teethless gab, and his bald pow, 

AjmI the rheum rins down frae his red Wue e'e, 

But an auld man shall never daunton me. 



THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED 
TO iME. 

" The Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me," 
was compo>ed on an amour of Charles II. when 
skulking in the North, about Aberdeen, in the 
time of the usurp ition. He formed une petite 
affaire with a dau^^hter of the House of Port- 
letham, who was the lass that made the bed to 
him : — two verses of it are, 

I Kiss'n her lips sae rosy red, 

While the tear stood blinkin in her e'e ; 
I said my lassie dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me. 

She took Iier mither's winding sheet. 

And o't she made a sark to me ; 
Blythe and merry may she l)e, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

BUHNS. 



I HAD A 



HORSE AND 
MAIU. 



HAD NAE 



This story was founded on fact. A John 
Hunter, ancestor to a very respectable farming 
family who live in a place in the parish, I think, 
of Galston, called Harr-mill, was the luckletts 
hero that /tad a hurst and had nae mair. — For 
•ome little youthful follies he found it necessary 
to make a retreat to ihe We>t-Highlai»ds, where 
he feed himself to a Hnjhlnnd Laird, for that 
is the expression of all the oral editions of the 
song I ever heard. — The present Mr. Hunter, 
who told me the anecdote, is the great-giaud- 
child to our hero. — Buuns. 



I HAD a horse, and I had nae mair, 

I gat him frae my daddy ; 
My purse was light, and my heart was saif 

But my wit it was fu' reidy. 
And sae I thought me on a time, 

Outwittens of my da<l(ly, 
To fee mysel to a lawland laird, 

Wua had a bonnie lady. 

I wrote a letter, and thus l>egan, 

" Madam, be not offended, 
I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' you, 

And care not tho' ye kend it : 
For I get little frae he laird, 

And far less frae my daddy, 
And I would blythcly be the man 

Would strive to please my lady.'* 

She read my letter, and she leugh, 

" Ye needna been sae blate, man ; 
You might hae come to me yoursel, 

And tauld me o' your state, man : 
Ye might hae come to me yoursel, 

Outwittens o' ony body, 
And made John Gowkston of the laird* 

And kiss'd his bonnie lady." 

Then she pat siller in my purse, 

We drank wine in a coggie ; 
She feed a man to rub my horse, 

And wow ! but I was vogie. 
But I gat ne'er sa sair a flog. 

Since I came frae my daddy, 
The laird came, rap raj), to the yett. 

When I was wi' his lady. 

Then she pat me below a chair. 

And happ'd me wi' a ))laidie; 
But I was like to swarf wi' fear. 

And wish'd me wi* my daddy. 
The laird went out, he saw na me, 

I went when I was ready : 
I promis'd, but I ne'er gade back 

To kiss his bonnie lady. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

This air was formerly called The Brid*' 
groom greets when the sun gaiiys down. Th« 
words are by Ludy Ann Lindsay. — Burns. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the ky at 
hame. 

And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; 
The waes of my heart fa' in show'rs frae my ee, 

When my gudeman lyes sound by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me wet,,, and he sought me 

for his bride. 

But saving a crown he had uaething beside ; 

To make that crown a piiuud, ni) Jaime gadc 

to sea. 

And the crown and the pound were baith fot 



1S8 



BURNS WORKS. 



He had nae been awa a week but only twa, 
When my mother she fell sick, and the cow 
was stown awa ; 

My father brak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea, 
And auld Robin Gray came a courting me. 

My father coudna work., and my mother coudna 
spin, 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I coud- 
na win ; 
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi* tears 
in his ee, 
Said, " Jenny, for their sokes, O marry me." 

My heart it said nay, T look*d for Jamie back. 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it 
was a wrack ; 

The ship it was a wrack, why didna Jenny die. 
And why do I live to say, waes me ? 

My father argued sair, tho' my mither didna 
speak. 
She look'd in my face till my heart was like 
to break ; 
So they gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was 
in the sea, 
And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four. 
When sitting sae mournfully at the door, 

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I coudna think it he, 
'Till he said, " I'm come back for to marry 
thee." 

sair did we greet, and mickle did we say. 
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves 

away, 

1 wish I were dead ! but I'm no like to die. 

And why do I live to say, waes me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, 

I darna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 

But I'll do my best a gudewife to be. 
For auld Robin Grav is kind unto me. 



UP AND WARN A* WILLIE. 

The expression, " Up and warn a* Willie,^'' 
alludes to the Crantara, oi warning of a High- 
.and Clan to arms. Not understanding this, 
the Lowlanders in the west and south say, " Up 
and waur them a*, &c. This edition of the 
song I got from Tom Niel, * of facetious fame, 
in Edinburgh. 

Up and warn a*, Willie^ 

Wain, warn a' , 
To hear my canty Highland sang. 
Relate the thing I saw, Willie. — Burns. 



♦ Tom Niel was a carpenter in Edinburgh, and lived 
fhiefly Dy inaKing coffins. He was a so Precentor, or 
Clerk, in one of the churches. He had a good strong 
voice, and wa< greatly distinguished by his powers of 
mimicry, and his humorous manner of singing the old 
Scottish ballads. 



When we gaed to the braes o' Mar, 

And to the wapon-shaw, Willie, 
Wi' true design to serve the king, 
And banish whigs awa, Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a* ; 
For lords and lairds came there bedeem. 
And wou but they were braw, Willie 

But when the standard was set up. 

Right fierce the wind did blavv, WUlie ; 
The royal nit upon the tap 

Down to the ground did fa', Willia, 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Then second-sighted Sandy said, 
We'd do nae gude at a*, Willie. 

But when the army join'd at Perth, 

The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie, 
We didna doubt the rogues to rout, 
Restore our king and a', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
The pipers play'd frae right to lefk, 
O whirry whigs awa, Willie. 

But when we march'd to Sherra-muir 

And there the rebels saw, Willie, 
Brave Argyle attack'd our right. 
Our flank and front and a', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Traitor Huntly soon gave way, 
Seuforth, St. Clair and a', Willie. 

But brave Glengary on our right, 

The rebels' left did claw, Willie ; 
He there the greatest slaughter made 
That ever Donald savv, Willie. 
Up and warn a' Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
And Whittam s — t his breeks for fear^ 
And fast did rin awa, Willie. 

For he ca'd us a Highland mob, 

And soon he'd slay us a' Willie, 
But we chas'd him back to Stilling DVig 
Dragoons and foot and a', WUlie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
At length we rallied on a hill, 

And briskly up did draw, Willie. 

But when Argyle did view our line, 

And them in order saw, Willie, 
He streight gaed to Dumblane agaic. 
And back his left did draw, Willie 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Then we to Auchteraider march'd, 
To wait a better fa', Willie. 

Now if ye spear wha wan the dav 
I've tell'd vou what 1 saw, W-'Ut, 



'^ 


SONGS. IHO 




We b«ith c\\d fight and baitb did bettt, 


And there will be gleed Geordie Janners, 




And baith did rin awa, Willie. 


And Kirsh wi' the lily-vvhite leg, 




Up and warn a', Willie, 


Wha * gade' to the south for manners. 




Warn, warn a' ; 


And bang'd up her wame in Mons Meg 




For second-sighted Sandie said, 


Fy let us all, §-c. 




We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. 


And there will be Judan Maciawrie, 

And blinkin daft Barbra ' Macleg,* 
Wi' flae-lugged, sharny-fac'd Lawrie, 








And shangy-mou'd halucket Meg. 
And there will be happer-ars'd Nansjr, 




THE BLYTHSOME BRIDAL. 




I FIND the Blythsome Bridal in James Wat- 


And fairy-fac'd Flowrie be name, 




ion'* Collection of Scots Poems, printed at 


Muck Madie, and fat-hipped Lizie, 




Edinburgh in IV06. 


The lass with the gauden wame 




This song has hiimou and a felicity of ex- 


Fy let us all, &c. 




pression wortliy of Ramsay, with even more 






than his wonted broadness and sprightly lan- 


And there will be girn-again Gibbie, 




guage. The Witty Catalogue of Names, with 


With his glakit wife Jennie Bell, 




their Historical Epithets, are done in the true 


And Misle-shinn'd Mungo Macapie, 




Lowland Scottish taste of an age ago, when 


The lad that was skipper himsel. 




every householder was nicknamed either from 


There lads and lasses in pearlings 




"•ome prominent part of his character, person, 


Will feast in the heart of the ha', 




or lands and housen, which he rented. Thus — 


0« sybows, and ryfarts, and carlings, 




" Skape-fitted Roh." " Thrawn-mou'd Rab 


That are baith sodden and raw. 




o' the Dubs." " Roarin Jock V the Swair.'* 


Fy let us all, §-c. 




*• Slaverin Simyjiie o' T'odshaw." " Souple 






Kate o' Irongraij,'^ &c. &c. — Burns. 


And there will be fadges and brachen, 
With fouth of good gappoks of skate, 




Fy let us all to the bridal, 


Pow-sodie, and drammock, and crowdie. 




For there will be lilting there ; 


And callour nout-feet in a plate ; 




For Jofkie's to be married to Maggie, 


And there will be partaus and buckies, 




The lass wi' thegauden hair. 


Speldens and whytens enevv, 




And there will be lang-kail and pottage, 


And singed sheep-heads, and a haggiie, 




And bannocks of barley-meal, 


And scadlips to sup till ye spew. 




And there will be good sawt herring, 


Fy let us all, Sj-c. 




To relish a cog of good ale. 






Fy let us all to the bridal, 


And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks, 




For there will be lilting there, 


And sowens, and failes, and b«ps, 




For Jackie's to be marry'd to Maggie, 


With swats, and well-scraped paunches, 




The lass with the gauden hair. 


And brandy in stoups and in caps; 
And there will be meal-kail and castocks, 




And there will be Sandie the sutor, 


With skink to sup till ye rive ; 




And ' Will' with the meikle mow ; 


And rosts to rost on a brander, 




And there will be Tam the * bluter,' 


Of flouks that were taken alive. 




With Andrew the tinkler, I trow. 


Fy let us all, ^c. 




And there will l>s bow-legged Robbie, 






With thumbless Katie's goodman ; 


Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dilse, and tangles, 




And there will be blue-cheeked Dowbie, 


And a mill of good snishing to prie ; 




And Lawrie the laird of the land. 


When weary with eating and drinking, 




Fy let us all, ^c. 


We'll rise up and dance till we die. 
Thenfy let us all to the bridal. 




And there will be sow-libber Patie, 


For there will be lilting there ; 




And plouckie-fac'd Wat i' the mill, 


For Jockie^s to be marry^d to Maggy 




Capper-nos'd Francie, and Gibbie, 


The lass with the gauden hair. 




That won« in the how of the hill ; 






And there wiil be Alaster Sibbie, 
Wha in with black Bessy did mool. 








With sneevling Lillie, and Tibbia, 






The lass that stands aft on the stool. 


CAN YE LABOUR LEA, YOUNu 




Fy let us all, ^c. 


MAN. 




And Madge that was buckled to Steenie, 


This song has long been known among th« 




And coft him [grey] breeks to his arse, 


inhabitants of Nithsdale and Galloway, where 




Wha after was' hangit for stealing, 


it hi a great favourite. The first verse should 




Great mercy it happened na warse : 


be restored to it* original state. 








— 



140 BURNS WORKS. 


I FEED a lad at Roodsinass, 


We're tall as the oak on the mount ot the vale. 


Wi' siller pennies three; 


As swift as the roe which nlie hound doth assail^ 


When he came home at Martinm»ss, 


As the full-moon in autumn our shields do ap 


He could nae lahour lea. 


pear. 


O caniia ye labour lea, young lad, 


Minerva would dread to encounter our spear. 


canna ye lahour lea ? 


Such our love, SfC. 


Indeed, quo* he, my hand's out — 




An' up his graith packed he. 


As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows, 




So are we enrag'd when we rush on our foes j 


This old way is the truest, for the terms, 


We sons of the mountains. tremendou-< as rocks 


Rnodmass is the hiring fair, and Hallowmass 


Dash the force of our foes with our thundering 


.hejirst of the half year — Burns. 


strokes. 




Such our love, S^c. 


I FEED a man at Martinmass, 




Wi' arle-pennies three ; 


Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old 


But a' the faute I had to him, 


France, 


He foulii nae labour lea. 


In their troops fondly boasted till we did ad- 


O can ye lahour lea, young man, 


vance ; 


can ye labour lea 9 


But when our claymores they saw us produce, 


Gae back the gate ye came again, 


Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce 


Ve'se never scum me. 


Such our love, Sfc. 


O clappin's gude in Febarvvar, 

An' kjssins sweet in May ; 
But what signifies a young man's ove 


In our realm may the fmy of faction long cease, 


May our councils be wise, and our commerce 


An't dinna last for ay. 
O can ye, Sfc. 


increase ; 
And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find, 


That our friends still prove true, and our beau- 


O kissin is the key of luve, 


ties prove kind. 


An dappin is the lock, 


Then we* 11 defend our liberty, our country. 


An' niakin-of's the best thing 


and our laws. 


That e'er a young thing got. 


And teach our lute posterity to fight %% 


can ye, Sfc. 


Freedonis cause. 




That they like our ancestors bold, §•€. 


IN THE GARB OF OLD GAUL. 






WOO'D AND MAURI ED AND A* 


This tune was the composition of General 




Reid, and called by him The Highland, or 42d 


Wod'd and married and a\ 


Regiment s March. The words are by Sir 


Wood and married and a', 


Harry Erskiue — Burns. 


Was she not very weel off, 




Was woo'd and married and o' / 


In the garb of old Gaul, wi' the fire of old 




Rome, 


The bride came out o' the byre, 


From the heath-cov«r'd mountains of Scotia we 


And as she dighted her cheeks, 


come. 


" Sirs, I'm to l)e murried the night, 


Where the Romans endeavnur'd our country to 


And has nouther blanket nor sheets; 


gain, 


Has nouther blankets nor sheets. 


But our ancestors fought, and they fought not 


Nor scarce a coverlet too ; 


in vain- 


The bride that has a' to borrow. 


Such our lace nfliberty, our country, and 


Has e'en right meikle ado." 


our laws, 


Woo'd and married, jpir« 


That like our ancestor.'' nf lud, toe stand 




by Frudoins cause; 


Out spake the bride's father, 


We'll bravdi/ Jig hi like heroes bold, for 


As he came in frae the pleugh, 


honour and ujjplause. 


'< had yere tongue, my daughter. 


And defy the French, wit\ all their art, 


And yese get gear enoujjh ; 


to alter oiir laws. 


The stirk that stands i' the tether. 




And our bra' basin'd yade, 


No effeminate custwns our sinews unbrace, 


Will carry ye hame yere cccn ; 


No luxurious tables enei vate our race. 


What wad ye be at ye jade ?" 


Our loud-tiounding pipe bears the true martial 


Wuo'd and mumtd, ^ 


strain. 




*»!o do we the old Scottish valour retain. 


Outspake the bride's mither. 


Such our (ove, Sfc. 


" What deil needs a' this pride ? 



■ 


SONGS 141 


1 had nae a pl.ick in my pouca 


The lasses are lonely, dowie and wae i 


That ni<?-ht I was a bride ; 


Nae daflin, nae gal)i)ing, 


My gown was llusy-woolsy, 


But sighing and sabbing. 


And ne'er a sark ava, 


Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away. 


And ye hae ribbons and busking 




Alair tnan ane or twa." 


At e'en in the gloniing 


Woo'd and married, ^. 


Nae swankies are roaramg, 




'Mang stacks with the lasses at bogle to play ; 


** What's the matter ?" quo' Willie, 


For ilk ane sits drearie, 


*' Tho* we be scant o' claiths. 


Lamenting her dearie, 


We'll deep the nearer thegither, 


The flow'rs o' the forest wh' are a* wed away. 


And we'll smoor a* the fleas ; 




Simmer is coming on, 


In har'st at the shearing 


And we'll get teats o' woo ; 


Nae blythe lads are jeering, 


And we'll get a lass o' our ain, 


The Bansters are lyart, and runkled, and grey ; 


And she'll spin claiths anew." 


At fairs nor at preaching, 


Woo'd and married, Sfv, 


Nae wooing, nae fleeching. 




Since our bra foresters are a' wed away. 


Outspake the bride's brither, 




As he came in wi' the kye. 


dule for the order ! 


** Puir Willie had ne'er hae ta'en ye, 


Sent our lads to the border ! 


Had he kent ye as weel as I ; 


The English for anes, by guile wan the day ? 


For you're baith proud and saucy, 


The flow'rs of the forest 


And no for a puir man's wife. 


Wha aye shone the foremost. 


Gin I canna get a better. 


The prime of the land lie cauld in the clay 


I'se never take ane i' my life.'* 




Woo'd and married, §"C, 
Outspake the bride's sister. 






As she fame in frae the byre, 


THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 


*' O gin I were but married, 




It's a' that I desire ; 


8Y MRS. COCKBURN. 


But we puir folk maun live single. 
And do the best we can ; 

I dinna care what I should want, 
If I could but get a man." 
Woo'd and luarried and a'. 


I've seen the smiling of fortune beiruiling, 
I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay ; 

Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, 
But soon it is lied — it is flod far away. 


Woo'd and married and a'. 
Was she not very weel aff. 

Was woo'd and married and a*. 


I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost. 
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and 

gay: 
Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the 

air perfuming. 


- 






But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awa« 


THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 






I've seen the morning, with gold the hills a- 


A SUCCESSFUL imitation of an old song is 


dorning. 


really attended with less difficulty than to con- 


And the red storm roaring, before the parting 


vince a blockhead that one of these jeu d'esprits 


day; 


is a forgery. Thi^> fine ballad is even a more 


I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in 


palpable imitation than Hardiknute. The 


the sunny beams, 


manners indeed are old, but the language is of 


Turn drumly and dark, as they rolled on theii 


yesterday. Its author must very soon be dis- 


way. 


covered.— Burns. 






fickle fortune; why this cruel sporting? 


BY JANE ELLIOT. 


Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day ? 


I've heard a lilting 
At the ewes milking, 
Lasses a* lilting before the break o* day. 


Thy frowns cannot fear hic, thy smiles cannot 
cheer me, 
Since the flcwera of the forest are a' VMb 
awae. 


But now I hear moaning 




On ilka green loaning, 




Since our brive forr'^sters are a* W«d vmf. 




At buchts in the morning 




Wae blythe lads are scorning j 







142 



BURNS' WORKS. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

Turji—" Johnny M'Gill." 

This tune is said to be the composition of 
lohn M'Gill. fidJler, in Girvan, He called it 
after his own name BaRXS. 

0, WILT thou go wi* me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 

O, wilt thou gj wi* me, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar ; 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, 

Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

I carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 

But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar ! 



THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. 

The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ram- 
say's. The old words are : — Burns. 

O THIS is no mine ain house, 

My ain house, ray ain house ; 
This is no mine ain house, 

I ken by the biggin o*t. 

There's bread and cheese are ray door-cheeks, 
Are my door-cheeks, are my door-cheeks ; 

There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks ; 
And pan- cakes the riggin o't. 

This is no my ain wean, 

My ain wean, my ain wean ; 
This is no my ain wean, 

I ken by the greetie o't. 

f 11 tak the curchie afF my head, 

Aff my head, aS my head ; 
I'll tak the curchie afF my head, 

And row't about the feetie o't. 

The tune is an old Highland air, called Shtian 
truish wilUyhan. 



THE GABERLUNZIE-MAN. 

The Gaberlunzie-Man is supposed to -jom- 
memorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. 
Callander of Craigforth, published some years 
ago, an edition of Christ's Kirk on the Green, 
and the Gaberlunzie-Man, with notes critical 
and historical. James the Fifth is said to have 
been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady Parish, and 
that it was suspected by liis cotemporaries, that 
in his frequent excursions to that part of the 
country he had other purposes in view besides 
golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies. 



Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant, ^^one of them 
resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh> 
bourhood), were occasionally visited by their 
royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise «o 
the following satirical advice to his Majesty, 
from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord 
Lyon. 

Sow not your seed on Sandi/lands, 
Spend not your strength in Weir, 
And ride not on an Elephant, 
For spoiling o' your gear. — Burns. 



Thk pawky auld carle came o'er the lee, 

Wi' many good e'ens and days to me, 
Saying, Goodwife, for your courtesie, 

Will ye lodge a silly poor man ! 
The night was cauld, the carle was wat, 
And down ayont the ingle he sat ; 
My daughter's shoulders he 'gan to clap, 

And cadgily ranted and sang. 

O wow ! qiio' he, were I as free, 
As first when I saw this country, 
How blyth and merry wad I be ! 

And I wad never think lang. 
He grew canty, and she grew fain ; 
But little did her auld minny ken 
What thir slee twa togither were say'n, 

When wooing they were sae thrang. 

And O ! quo' he, ann ye were as black 
As e'er the crown of ray dad)'s hat, 
'Tis I wad lay thee by my back, 

And awa' wi' me thou shou'd gang. 
And O ! quo' she, ann I were as whit9. 
As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, 
I'd dead me braw, and lady like, 

And awa' with thee I'd gang. 

Between the twa was made a plot ; 
They raise awee before the cock, 
And wilily they shot the lock, 

And fast to the bent are they gane. 
Up the morn the auld wife raise. 
And at her leisure put on her claise ; 
Syne to the servant's bed she gaes, 

To speer for the silly poor man. 

She gaed to the bed where the beggar laf. 
The strae was cauld, he was away, 
She clapt her hand, cry'd Waladay, 

For some of our gear will be gane. 
Some ran to coffers, and some to kists. 
But nought was stown that cou'd be mist, 
She danc'd her lane, cry'd. Praise be blest, 

I have lodg'd a leal poor man. 

Since nathing's awa', aa we can learn. 
The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn, 
Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my baim 
And bid her come quickly ben. 



SONGS. 



143 



rhe M-»'va\,t vj'uli' where the d luirhter lay, 
The rfheet>< vv** im«.)'I. she w.is awiiy, 
And fast to her ^oodw^-.ie gan say^ 
She's aff with the Gal^rluurie-.nan. 

O ty ^ar ride, an I fy jjar rin, 

And haste ye find these traytors ajrain ; 

For she's be burnt, and he's bt slam, 

The we:irifu' Oaberlunzie-man. 
Some rade upo' horse, some ran a fit. 
The wife was wood, and out o' her wit : 
She oou'd na gang, nor yet cou'd she sit, 

But ay she cuis'd and she ban'd. 

Mean time I'ar hind out o'er the lea, 

Fu' sung in a glen, where nane cou'd see, 

The twa, with kindly sport and glee, 

Cut frae a new cheese a whang : 
The priving was good, it pleas'd them baith, 
To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith ; 
Quo' she, to leave thee I will be laith, 

My winsome Gaberlunzie-man. 

O kend my minny I were wi* you, 
lllsardly wad she crook her mou. 
Sic a poor man she'd never trow, 

After the Gaberlunzie-man. 
My dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young, 
And ha* nae lear'd the beggar's tongue, 
To follow me frae town to town. 

And carry the Gaberlunzie on. 

Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread, 

And spindles and whorles for them wha need, 

Whilk is a gentle trade indeed, 

To carry the Gaberlunzie — O. 
I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, 
And draw a black clout o'er my eye, 
A cripple or blind they will ca' me. 

While we shall be merry and sing. 



aONNIE COUP. 

Phis satirical song was composed to comme- 
morate General Cope's defeat at Preston-Pans, 
in 1745, when he marched against the clans. 

The air was the tune of an old song, of which 
I have heard some verses, but now only remem- 
ber the title, which was, 

Will ye go to the coals in the morning. 
£u&NS. 



CoVT sent a letter frae Dunbar, 

Charlie, meet me an ye dare. 

And I'll learn you the art of wa., 

if you'll meet wi' me in the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, are yt waking yet ? 
Or are your drums a-beuting yet 9 
If ye were waking I woud wait 
To gang to the coals i' the mornfnjf. 



When Charlie look'd the letter upon. 
He drew liis sword the scabbard from. 
Come follow me, my merry merry men. 
And we'll meet wi' Coup i' the morning. 
Hey Jonnie Coup, 8fc. 

Now, Jonnie, be as good as your word, 
Come let us try both fire and sword, 
And dinna rin awa* like a frighted bird. 
That's chas'd frae it's nest in the morning 
Hey Jonnie Coup, S^c. 

When Jonnie Coup he heard of this, 
He thought it wadna be amiss 
To hae a horse in readiness. 
To flie awa' i' the morning. 

Hey JoJinie Coup, ^o 

Fy now Jonnie get up and rin, 
The Highland bagpipes makes a din, 
It's best to sleep in a hale skin. 
For 'twill be a bluddie morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, 8fc. 

When Jonnie Coup to Berwick came, 
They spear'd at him, where's a' your meOf 
The deil confound me gin I ken, 
For I left them a' i' the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, ^e. 

Now, Jonnie, trouth ye was na blate, 
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat. 
And leave your men in sic a strait, 
So early in the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, ^ 

Ah ! faith, co' Jonnie, I got a fleg. 
With their claymores and philabegs. 
If I face them again, deil break my legi, 
So I wish you a good morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, ^. 



A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. 

I PICKED up this old song and tune from a 
country girl in Nithsdale. — I never met with it 
elsewhere in Scotland Burns. 

Wha RE are you gaun, my bonnie law, 

Where are you gaun, my hianie, 
She answer'd me right saucilie, 

An errand for my minnie. 

O whare live ye, my bonnie Imb, 

O whare live ye, my hinnie, 
By yen burn-side, gin ye maun ken, 

la a wee bouse wi' my minnie. 

But I foor up the glen at een. 

To see my bonnie lassie ; 
And lang before the gray mom c«m, 

She was na bnuf sae aaucii. 



144 



BURNS' WORKS. 



O weary fa' the waukrife cock, 
And the foumart lay his crawin ! 

He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep, 
A wee blink or the dawin. 

An angry wife I wat she raise. 

And o'er the bed she brought her j 

And wi' a mickle huzie rung 

She made he' a weel pay'd dochter 

O fare thee weel, my bonnie lass ! 

O fare thee weel, my hinnie ! 
Thou art a gay and a bonnie lass, 

But thou hast a waukrife minnie.* 



TULLOCHGORUM. 

This, first of songs, is the master-piece of 
my old triend Skinner. He was passing the day 
at the town of El'on, I think it was, in a friend's 
house whose name was Montgomery. — Mrs. 
Montgomery observing, en passant, that the 
beautiful reel of Tudochf/orum wanted words, 
she begged them of Mr. Skinner, who gratified 
her wishes, and the wishes of every lover of 
Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad. 

These particulars I had from the author's 
son. Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen.— Bus. ns. 

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cry'd, 
And lay your disputes all aside, 
What signifies't for folks to chide 

For what was done before them : 
Let Whig and Tory all agree, 

Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
M hig and Tory all agree. 

To drop their Whig- raig-morum. 
Let Whig and Tory all agree 
To spend the night wi' mirth and glee, 
And cheerful sing alang wi* me, 

The Reel ©' Tuilochgorum. 

O, Tullochgorum's my delight, 

It gars us a' in ane unite. 

And ony sumph that keeps up spite, 

In conscience I abhor him : 
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 

BIythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie, 
Blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 

And make a happy quorum. 
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a*, 
As lang as we hae breath to draw, 
And dance till we be like to fa' 

The Reel o* Tuilochgorum. 



« The peasantry have a verse superior to some of 
those recovered by Burns, which is worthy of notice. 

«• O though thy hair was gowden weft. 

An" thyjips o' drapping hinnie. 
Thou hast gotten the clog that winna cUng 

For a* you're waukrife minnie." 



What needs tVere be sae great a fraise, 
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, 
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys 
'' For half a h under score o' theA 

They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie^ 
Dowf and dowie at the best, 

Wi' a' their variorum ; 
They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Their allegros and a* the rest. 
They canna please a Scottish taste, 

Compar'd wi' Tuilochgorum. 

Let warldly worms their minds oppress 
Wi' fears o' want and double cess. 
And sullen sots themsells distress 

Wi' keeping up decorum : 
Shall wo sae sour and sulky sit. 

Sour and sulky, sour and sulkjr, 
Sour and sulky shall we sit 

Like old philosophorum ! 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit. 
Nor ever try to shake a fit 

To the Reel o' Tuilochgorum * 

May choicest blessings ay attend 
Each honest, open-hearted friend, 
And calm and quie*" be his end. 

And a' that's good watch o'ei him | 
May peace and plenty be his lot. 

Peace and plenty, peace and plenty. 
Peace and plenty be his lot, 

And dainties a great store o* theas} 
May peace and plenty he his lot, 
Unstain'd by any vicious spot. 
And may he never want a groat. 

That's fond o* Tuilochgorum ' 

But for the sullen frumpish fool, 
That loves to be oppression's tool. 
May envy gnaw his rotten soul. 

And discontent devour him ; 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 

Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
Dool and sorrow be his chance, 

And nane say, wae's me for him ! 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
Wi' a' the ills that come frae FrancCt 
Wha e'er he be that winna da,nce 

The Reel o' Tuilochgorum. 



JOHN O* BADENYON. 

This excellent song is also the compositrat 
of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Lioshari 
— Burns. 

When first I cam to be a man 

Of twenty years or so, 
I thought myself a handsome youth, 
And fain the world would know s 





SONGS. 145 


In best attire I stept abroad, 


What next to do I mus'd a while* 


With spirits bri«.k and gay, 


Still hoping to succeed, 


Ajid hertJ and there and every where 


I pitch'd on hooks for company, 


Was lik« a morn in May ; 


And gravely try'd to read : 


No care I had nor fear of want, 


I bought and bdrrow'd every wher^. 


But rambled up and down. 


And study'd night and day. 


And for a beau I might have past 


Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote 


In country or in town ; 


That happen'<l in my way : 


I stiU was pleas'd where'er I went, 


Philosophy I now esteem'd 


And when I was aloue, 


The ornament of youth, 


T tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself 


And carefully through many a page 


Wi ' John o' Badenyon. 


I hunted after truth. 




A thousand various schemes I try'd, 


Now in the days of youthful prime 


And yet was pleas'd with none, 


A. mistress I must find, 


I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe 


For love, I heard, gave one an air, 


To John o' Badenyon. 


And ev'n improved the mind : 




On Phillis fair above the rest 


And now ye youngsters every where, 


Kind fortune tixt my eyes. 


That wish to make a show. 


Her piercing beauty struck my heart, 


Take heed in time, nor fondly hope 


And she became my choice ; 


For happiness below ; 


To Cupid now with hearty prayer 


What you may fancy pleasure here, 


I offer' d masy a vow ; 


Is but an empty name. 


4nd danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore. 


And ffirls, and friends, and books, and SO, 


As other lovers do ; 


You'll find them all the same ; 


But, when at last i breath 'd my flame, 


Then be advised and warning take 


I found her cold as stone ; 


From such a man as me ; 


I left the girl, and tun'd my pipe 


I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal, 


To John o' Badenyon. 


Nor one of high degree ; 




You'll meet displeasure every where . 


When love had thus my heart beguil'd 


Then do as I have done. 


With foolish hopes and vain ; 


E'en tune your pipe and please yourselve* 


To friends/tip's port I steer 'd my course, 


With John o' Badenyon. 


And laugh'd at lovers' pain ; 




A friend I got by lucky chance, 
'Twas something like divine, 






An honest friend's a precious gift, 
And such a gift was mine ; 


THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 


And now whatever might betide, 


Here is a verse of this lively old song tha 


A happy man was I, 


used to be sung after these printed ones.— 


In any strait I knew to whom 


Burns. 


I freely might apply ; 




A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ; 


0, WHA has lien wi' our Lord yestreen t 


He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; 


0, wha has lien wi' our Lord yestreen ? 


I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe 


In his soft down bed, 0, twa fowk were the sted. 


To John o' Badenyon. 


An' whare lay the chamber maid, lassie, yes- 




treen ? 


Methought I should be wiser next, 
And would <i patriot turn. 






Began to doat on Johnnv Wilkes, 




And cry up Parson home.* 


COCKPEN. 


Their manly spirit I adniir'd, 
And prais'd their noble zeal, 

Who had with flaming tongue and pen 
Maintain'd the public weal ; 

But e'er a month or two had past, 


0, WHEN she came ben she bobbed fu* law, 
O, when she came ben she bobbed fu' law. 
And when she came ben she kiss'd Cockpen, 


And syne deny'd she did it at a'. 


I found myself betray'd, 
'Twas self and party after all. 

For a' the stir they made ; 
At last I law thi: fuctioux knares 


And was na (^ckpen right saucie with a*. 
And was na Cockpen right saucie with a*. 


In leaving the daughter of a Lord, 


Insult the very throne. 


And kissin a collier lassie, an' a' ? 


I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe 
To John o' Badenyon. 


O never look down my lassie, at a , 


never look down my laasits, at a'. 

Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete, 


• Thu sonj; wa« comjx)s€d when WUke«, Home, 


kc wrrp m^ifing a noiM> about liberty. 


Am the finest dame in catttle or ha'. 


1 



146 



BURNS WORKS. 



Tho* thou has nae silk and holland sae snia', 
Tho' thou has nae silk and holland sae sma', 
Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handy-wark, 
And Lady Jean was never sae braw ! 



The following set of this song is now \iry 
common. It is ascribed to the authoress ol the 
novel of *' Marriage 

THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 



Tune—" The Laird of Cockpen.'* 

Cockpen, he is proud an' he's 



The Laird o 
great ; 
His mind is ta'en up wi' the things of the state : 
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep ; 
But favour wi' vvooin' was fashions to seek. 

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell ; 
At his tahk; head he thought she'd look well ; 
M'Leish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, 
A pennyiesH la^s wi' a lang pedigree. 

His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when 

new, 
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; 
He put on a ring, — a sword, — and cock'd hat, — 
Aud wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that? 

He took the grey mare and rade cannalie ; 
And rap|)'(i at the yett o* Claverse-ha' Lee : 
Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben : 
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen. 

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower 

wine : 
" And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?" 
She put art" her apron, and on her silk gown. 
Her muti-h wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' 

down. 

And when she cam' ben, he booed fu' low ; 
And what was his errand he soon let her know ; 
Amazed was the Laird, when the lady said Na', 
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. 

Dumbfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gie ; 
He mounted his mare, and rade caimilie : 
And aften he thought, as he gaed thro' the glen. 
She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 

And now that the Laird his exit had made, 
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said : 
Oh for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten, 
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 

Neist time that the Laird and the lady were seen. 
They were gaun arm in arm to the kirk on the 

green ; 
Now she Mts in the Ha* like a weel-tappit hen ; 
Hut as yet there's nae chickens appeared at 

Cockpen. 



CA' THE EWES TO THE KNOWES. 

This beautiful song is in the true old Scotch 
taste, yet I do not know that either au- or wordi 
were in print before — Burns. 

Co* the ewes to the knowes, 

( a' them whare the heather grows 

Co' them whare the burnie roweSf 
My bnnnie dearie. 

As I gaed down the water-side, 

There I met my shepherd lad, 
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, 

An' he ca'd me his dearie. 
Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 

Will ye gang down the water-side. 
And see the waves sae sweetly glide^ 

Beneath the hazels sp?'eading wide, 
The moon it shines fu' clearly. 
Ca' the ewes, 8fc. 

I was bred up at nae sic school, 
My shepheid lad, to play the foo;. 

And a' the day to sit in dool, 
And Haebody to see me. 
€0' the ewes, Sfc. 

Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet. 

And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, 
And ye sail be my dearie. 
Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, 
I'se gang wi' you my shepherd-lad. 

And ye may rowe me in your plaid, 
And I sail be your dearie. 
Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 

While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
'Till clay-cauld death sail blin my e'e, 

Ye sail be my dearie. * 

Ca* the ewes, ^c. 



LADIE MARY ANN. 

The starting verse should be restoie-d ."— 
Burns. 

** Lady Mart Ann gaed out 0' her bower^ 
An' she found a bonnie rose new i* the Sower ; 

As she kiss'd its ruddy lips drapping wi* dew, 
Quo* she, ye're nae sae sweet as my Charlie'i 
mou." 



* Mrs. Bums infonried the Editor that ths last^ 
of this song was written by Bums. 



SONGS. 



147 



LADIE MARY ANN. 

Latit Mary Ann looks o'er the castle wa*, 
She saw three ^^'^"n^e boys playing at the ba". 
The youngest ne was the flower amang them a' ; 
My boiinie laddie's young, but ie's growin' 
yet. 

'* O father, O flithcr, an' yt think it fit, 
We'll send hitn a vear to the college yet ; 
We'L sew a ijreen ribbon round about his hat, 
And that will let them ken he's to marry yet." 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew. 
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue, 
And the langer it blossomed, the sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in tht ^nd will be bonnier yet. 

Youn^ Charlie Coch»an was the sprout of an 

a-k, 
Bonnie, and bloomiag, and straight was its make, 
I'he sun took delight to shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 

The simrner is gane, when the leaves they were 
green ; 

And the days are awa that we hae seen ; 

But far better days, I trust, will come again, 
For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's grow- 
in' yet. 



KILLYCRANKY. 

The battle of Killycranky was the last stand 
made by the Clans for James, after his abdica- 
tion. Here Dundee fell in the moment of vic- 
tory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. 
— General Mackay, when he found the High- 
landers did not pursue his flying army, said, 
" Dundee must be killed, or he never would 
have overlooked this advantage." — A great stone 
marks the spot where Dundee fell. — Burns. 

Clavers and his highland-men, 

Came down upo' the raw, man, 
Who being stout, gave m(my a clout, 

The lad> began to claw, then. 
With «word and terge into their hand, 

Wi' which they were nae slaw, man, 
Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh. 

The lads began to claw, then. 

O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank. 

She flang amang them a', man ; 
The butter-box got mony knocks, 

Their riggings jmid for a' then ; 
They got their piiks, wi' sudden etraiks, 

Which to their grief they saw, man j 
Wi' clinkum clankum o'er their crowns. 

The lads began to fa' then. 

Hur skipt about, hur leapt about, 
And flang amang tb«iu a*, man ; 



The English blades got broken heads, 
Their crowns were cleav'd in twa then> 

The durk and door inade their last hour. 
And prov'd their final fa, man ; 

They thought the devil had been there. 
That play'd them sic a paw then. 

The solemn league and covenant 

Came whigging up the hills, man, 
Thought highland trews durst not refuM 

For to subscribe their bills then : 
In Willie's name * they thought nae ane 

Durst stop their course at a', man ; 
But hur nane sell, wi* mony a knock, 

Cry'd, Furich-whiggs, awa', man. 

Sir Evan Du, and his men true, 

Came linking up the brink, man ; 
The Hogan Dutch they feared such. 

They bred a horrid stink, then. 
The true Maclean, and his fierce men, 

Came in amang them a', man ; 
Nane durst withstand his heavy hand, 

All fled and ran awa' then. 

Oh' on a ri, oh' on a ri, 

Why should she lose king Shames, ncan ? 
Oh' riff in di, oh' rig in di, 

She shall break a' her banes then ; 
With furichinish, aa' stay a while, 

And speak a word or twa, man. 
She's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck, 

Before ye win awa' then 

O fy for shame, ye're three for ane, 

Hur nane-sieU's won the day, man ; 
King Shame's red-coats should be liu^g u^ 

Because they ran awa' then : 
Had bent their brows, like LighKnff' tr-tvn 

And made as lang a stay, ro»n, 
They'd sav'd their king, tha*. secr-.d ^iu*^' 

And Willie'd ' run' awa' tliec 



THE EWIE Wr riT. Le.OOYJT U0^4 

Another excel'eni; ^ jpg of old SkinnerS-t 
Burns. 

Were I but ab'e ic rehearse 
My Ewie's prxi^-e in proper verse, 
I'd sound It lO.tL r^ loud and fierce 

As e'er p'p^c'-i drone could blaw ; 
The Eive iv"' *hn ciookit ht»rn, 
W^iy b y k .pt her might hae sworn 
Sic 9 F JV : '/as never born, 

^le.e'ibout nor far awa'. 
Sis '1 Eve was never born, 

Hereabout nor far awa' 

I i.tftr needed tar nor keil 
To nark her upo' hip or heel, 



♦ Prince of Orantr*. 



r 



U8 



BURNS WORKS. 



Her crookit Tioin did as weel 

To ken her by imo' them a' ; 
She never threaten'd scab nor rot, 
But keepit ay her ain jog trot, 
Baith to the fauld and to the coat. 

Was never sweir to lead nor caw, 
Baith to the fauld and to the coat, &c*. 

Cauld nor hunger never dang her. 
Wind nor we* could never wrang her, 
Anes she lay ari ouk and langer, 

Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw 
Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke, 
And eat the kail for a' the tyke. 
My Ewic never play'd the like, 

But tyc'd about the barn wa' ; 
My Ewie never play'd the like, &c. 

A better or a thriftier beast, 

Nae honest man could weel hae wist, 

For silly thing she never mist. 

To hae ilk year a lamb or twa' ; 
The first she had I gae to Jock, 
To be to him a kind o' stock, 
And now the laddie has a flock 

O' mair nor thirty head ava* j 
And now the laddie has a flock, &c. 

I lookit aye at even' for her, 

Lest mischanter shou'd come o'er her, 

Or the fowmart might devour her. 

Gin the beastie bade awa ; 
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
Well deserv'd liaith giijse and corn, 
Sic a Ewe was never born, 

Here-about nor far awa. 
Sic a Ewe was never born, &c. 

Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, 
Wha can speak it without weejlhig 
A villain cam when I was sleeping, 

Sta' my Ewie, horn and a' ; 
I sought her sair upo* the morn. 
And down aneath a buss o' thorn 
I got my Ewie's crookit horn, 

But my Ewie was awa'. 
I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c. 

! gin I had the Ioum that did it. 
Sworn I have as well as said it, 
Tho' a' the warld should forbid it, 

I wad gie his neck a thra' : 

1 never met wi' sic a turn, 
As this sin ever I was born, 
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn. 

Silly Ewie stown awa'. 
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &<j, 

O ! had she died o' crook or cauld, 
Ab Ewies do when they grow auJd, 
it wad nae been, by mony fauld, 

Sae sare a heart to nane o's a' i 
For a' the claith that we hae worn, 
Prae her and her's sae aften shorn. 



The loss o' her wt cou d hae bom, 

Had fair strae-death ta*un hei ava*. 
The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, &c. 

But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, 
Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, 
I'm really fley't that our guidwife 

Will never win aboon't ava: 
O ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, 
Call your muses up and mourn, 
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 

Stown frae's, and fellt and a' ! 
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. 



ANDRO Wr HIS CUTTIE GUN. 

This blythsome soflg, so full of Scottish hu- 
mour and convivial merriment, is an intira«it« 
favourite at Bridal Trystes, and House-heat- 
ings. It contains a spirited picture of a country 
ale-house touched off with all the lightsome gaiety 
80 peculiar to the rural muse of Caledonia, when 
at a fair. 

Instead «f the line, 

" Girdle cakes weel toasted brown," 

I have heard it sung, 

" Knuckled cakes weel brandert brown. " 

These cakes are kneaded out with the knuckles, 
and toasted over the red embers of wood on a 
gridiron. They are remarkably fine, and have 
a delicate relish when eaten warm with al^ 
On winter market nights the landlady heata 
them, and drops them into the quaigh to warm 
the ale : 



Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken 
To gar the swats gae glibber down.* 



BUR«& 



BLYTH WAS SHB 

Blyth, blyth, blyth was she, 

Blyth was she butt and ben ; 
And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill. 

And leugh to see a tappit hen. 
She took me in, and set me down. 

And heght to keep me lawing-free ; 
But, cunning carling that she was, 

She gart me birle my bawbie. 

We loo'd the liquor well enough ; 

But waes my heart my cash was done 
Before that I had quench'd my drowth, 

And laith I was to pawn my shoon. 
When we had three times toom'd our stoap^ 

And the niest chappin new begun, 
Wha started in to heeze our hope. 

But \ndro* wi* his cutty gun. 



SONGS. 



149 



Yhe carling brought her kebbuck ben, 

With girdle-cakes weel-toasted browD) 
Well does the canny kiinmer ken, 

They gar the swats gae glibber down. 
We ca'd the bicker aft about ; 

Till dawning we ne'er jee'd our bun, 
And ay the cleanest drinker out 

Was Andro' wi' his cutty gun. 

He did like ony mavis sing, 

And as 1 in his oxter sat, 
He ca'd me ay his bonny thing. 

And mony a sappy kiss I gat : 
I hae been east, I hae been west, 

I hae been far ayont the sun ; 
But the blythest lad that e'er I saw 

Was Andro wi' his cutty gun ! 



HUGHIE GRAHAM. 

There are several editions of this ballad 

This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in 
Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a 
popular song. — It originally, had a simple old 
tune, which I have forgotten. — Burns. 

OcjR lords are to the mountains gane, 

A hunting o* the fallow deer. 
And they have gripet Hughie Graham 

For stealing o' the bishop's mare. 

And they have tied him hand and foot. 
And led him up, thro' Stirling town ; 

The lads and lasses met him there. 

Cried, Hughie Graham thou'rt a loun, 

O lowse my right hand free, he says, 
And put my biaid sword in the same ; 

He's no in Stirling town this day, 

Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham, 

Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, 

As he sat by the bishop's knee. 
Five hundred white stots I'll gie you 

If ye'll let Hughie Graham free. 

O baud your tongue, the bishop says. 
And wi* your pleiding let me be; 

For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat 
Hughie Graham this day shall die. 

Up then bespake the fair Whittfoord, 

As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 
Five hundred white pence I'l! gie you, 

]f ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. 

baud your tongue now lady fair, 

And wi' your pleading let it be; 
Aitho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 

Its for my honor he maun die. 



They've ta'en him to the gallows know©. 

He looked to the gallows tree 
Yet never colour left his cheek, 

Nor ever did he blink his ee. 

At length he looked round about 

To see whatever he could spy : 
And there he saw his auld father, 

And he was weeping bitterly. 

O baud your tongue, my father dear, 
And wi' your weeping let it be ; 

Thy weeping's sairer on my heart, 
'Than a' that they can do to me. 

And ye may gie my brc.ther John, 

My sword that's bent in the middle cleai| 

And let him come at twelve o'clock. 
And see me pay the bishop's mare. 

And ye may gie my brother James 

P/ly fiword that's bent in the middle brown. 

And bid him come at four o'clock. 
And see his brother Hugh cut down. 

Remember me to Maggy my wife, 

The niest time ye gang o'er the moor. 

Tell her she staw tne r>«shop's mare, 
Tell her she was the bishop's whore. 

And ye may tell my kith and kin, 
I never did disgrace their blood ; 

And when they meet the bishop's cloak, 
To mak it shorter by the hood. 



LORD RONALD, MY SON. 

This air, a very favourite one In Ayrshiie, 
is evidently the original of Lochaber. In this 
manner most of our finest more modern airs have 
had their origin. Some early minstrel, or mu- 
sical shepherd, composed the simple artless ori 
ginal air, which being picked up by the more 
learned musician, took the improved for tins 
bears. — Burns. 

The name is commonly sounded Ronald* iat 
Randal. 



Where have ye been hunting, 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
Where have ye been hunting. 

My handsome youpg man ? 
In yon wild wood, Oh mother, 

So make my lied soon : 
For I'm wae, and I'm weary, 

And fain would lie down. 

Where gat ye your dinner, 
Lord Randal, my son ? 

Where gat ye your -iinner. 
My handsome young man ? 



150 



BURNS' WORKS, 



O, I dinefl with my irue love, 
So make my bed soon : 

For I'm vvae, and I'm weary, 
Aud fain would lie down. 

O, what was your dinner, 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
O, what was your dinner, 

My handsome yoiin;;; man ? 
Eels boiled in broo, mother ; 

So make my bed soon : 
For I'll: wae, and I'm weary, 

And tain would lie down. 

0, where did she find them, 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
0, where did she catch them. 

My handsome young man ? 
'Neath the bush of brown brekan, 

So make my bed soon : 
For I'm wae, and I'm weary 

And fain would lie down. 

Now, where are your bloodhounds. 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
What came of your bloodhounds, 

My handsome young man ? 
They swelled and died, mother. 

And sae maun I soon : 
O, 1 am wae, and I'm weary, 

And fain would lie down. 

I fear you are poisoned. 

Lord Randal, my son ! 
I fear you are poisoned. 

My handsome young man ! 

yes I am poisoRed, — 
So make my bed soon : 

1 am sick, sick at heart, 

And I now must lie down. 



LOGAN BRAES. 

There were two old songs to this tune ; one 
•f them contained some striking lines, the other 
antered into the sweets of wooing rather too 
freely for modern poetry. — It began, 

" Ae simmer night on Logan braes, 

I helped a bonnie lassie on wi' her claes, 
First wi* her stockins, an' syne wi' her shoon, 
But she g^ed me the glaiks when a' was done." 

The other seems older, but it is not so charac- 
teristic of Scottish courtship. 

* Logan Water's wide and deep, 
An' laith am I to weet my feet ; 
But gif yell consent to gang wi* me, 
1*11 hire a hoi-se to cany thee." 

Bu&NS. 



ANOTHER SET. 

LOGAN WATER. 

BY JOHN MAYNE. 

By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, 
Fu' aft*, wi' glee, I've herded sheep, 
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes, 
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan Braes : 
But, wae's my heart, thae days are gant^ 
And, fu' o' grief, I herd my lane ; 
Whj le my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far , far frae me and Logan Braes I 

Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he, 
Atween the preachings, meet wi' me— 
Meet wi' me, or, when it's mirk, 
Convoy me hame frae Logao Kirk ! 
I Weil may sing, thae days are gane— 
Frae Kirk and Fair I come my lane, 
While my dear lad maun face his fae». 
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes ' 



O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE 
HEATHER. 

This song is the composition of a Jean Glorer, 
a girl who was not only a w — e, but also a thief; 
tnd in one or other character has visited most 

of the Correction Houses in the West She 

was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock : — 1 took 
the song down from her singing as she WM 
strolling through the country, w'^-h a slight' of- 
hand blackguard. — Burns. 

Comin' thro' the Craigs o' Kyle, 
Amang the bonnie blooming heather, 
There I met a bonnie lassie. 
Keeping a' her yowes thegither. 

O^er the moor amang the heather^ 

O'er the moor amang the heather, 

There I met a btmnie lassie, 

Keeping a' her yowes thegither. 

Says I, my dearie, where is thy hame, 
In moor or dale, pray tell me whether? 
S'ne eays, I tent the fleecy flocks 
That feed amang the blooming heather. 
O'er the moor, |rc, 

W« laid us down upon a bank, 
Sae warm and sunny was the weather, 
She left her flocks at large to rove 
Amang the bonnie blooming heather. 

0*er the moor, Sfc. 

While thus we lay she sang a sang, 
Till echo rang a mile and farther, 
And ay the burtien o' the sang 
Was — o'er the moor amang the heather. 
0\:r tke mour, ^'i, 



SONGS. 



151 



SV,i charm 'd my heart, and aye Binspn, 
I could na think on any itbjjr : 
By sea and sky she shall be mine ! 
The bonnle lass amang the heather. 

O'er the moor, Sfc 



BONNIE DUNDEE. 

O WHARE gat ye that hauver-meal bannock, 

O silly blind bodie. O dinna ye see ! 
t got it frae a sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnstone and bonnie Dundee. 
O gm I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudl'd me on his knee: 
May heav'n protect my bonnie Scotch laddie, 

And sen' him safe hanie to his babie aud me ! 

May blessins light on thy sweet, we lippie ! 

May blessins light on thy bonnie ee-bree! 
Thou smiles sae like my sodger laddie, 

Thou's dearer, dearer ay to me ! 
But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonnie banks, 

Whare T;iy rins wimplan by sae cleai ; 
An' ill deed thee in the tartan fine. 

An' mak thee a man like thy daddie deai- ! 

OLD VERSE. 

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood. 
Ye' re like to the bark o* yon rotten tree, 

Yp sHp frae me like a knotless thread, 

Aa' ye'll crack your credit wi' mae than me. 



DONOCHT-HEAD. 
r«ne»— " Gordon Castle." 

KfEN blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,* 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, 
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering tells his waefu' tale. 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in, 

" And dinna let your minstrel fa', 
' And dinna let his windin-sheet 

" Be naething but a wreath o' snaw ! 

Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

" And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, 
' And mony a day ye've danc'd, I ween, 

" To lilts which frae my drone I blew." 
My E|)pii» wak'd, and soon she ciy'd, 

" Get up, Guidmau, and let him in ; 
'* For weel ye ken the winter night 

" Was short when he began Jiis din." 

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's swpp*- 
E'en tho' she bans and scaulds awec ; 

But when it's tnn'd to sorrow's tale, 
O haith, it*s doubly dear to me ! 

• A mountain in the North. 



Come in, au d Carl ! I'll steer my fire, 
I'll mak it bleeze a bonuie flame ; 

Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate, 
Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. 

" Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
" Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha* ; 

** And, weeping at tho eve o' life, 
" I wander thro' a wreath o* snaw.* 



THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. 

This song is one of the many attempts txdt 
English composers have made to imitate thf 
Scottish manner, and which 1 shall, in these 
strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the appel- 
lation of Anglo- Scottish productions. The mu- 
sic is pretty good, but the verses are just above 
contempt Bu rns. 



I LEFT the sweet banks of the deep flowing 
Tweed, 

And my own little cot by the wild wood, 
When Fanny was sporting through valley and 
mead, 

In the beautiful morning of childhood 
And oftimes alone, by the wave-beaten shore, 

When the billows of twilight were flowing, 
I thought, as I mus'd on the days that w'ereo'er, 

How the rose on her cheek would be blowing 

I came to the banks of the deep flowing Tweed, 

And mine own little cot by the wild wood, 
When o'er me ten Kumuiers had gather'd their 
speed, 

And Fanny had pass'd from her childhood. 
I found her as fair as my fancy could dream, 

Not a bud of her loveliness blighted, 
And I wish'd I had ne'er seen her beauty's soft 
beam, 

Or that we were for ever united. 



THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. 

I This Song is one of the many effusions of 
I Scots jacobitism. — Tlie title, FL-wtrs of Edin- 



hiiryh, has no manner of connexion with the 



I present verses, so I suspect there has been an 
, older set of words, of which the title is all th,at 



* This afifetting poem was long attributed to Burns. 
He tlius remarks on it. " Donoclit-Hmd is not mine 
I would ijive ten pounds it were. It appeared first in 
the Kdiiiburgli Herald ; aii^i came to llie editor of that 
papei with the Newcastle post-mark on ii." It wa.^ 
the composition of William Fi-.kering, a north o* 
England poet, who is not known to have written any 
thitia more. 



By thfj o^-e, it is singular enough that the 
Scottish Muses were all Jacobites. — I have paid 
more attention to every description of Scots 
songs than perhaps any body living has done, 
and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even 
the title of the most trifling Scots air, which 
has the least panegyrical reference to the fami- 
lies of Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are 
hundreds satirizing them. This may be thought 
no panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it 
as such. For myself, I would always take it as 
a compliment to have it said, that my heart ran 
before my head ; and surely the gallant though 
unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings of our 
fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme 
much more interesting than * * * *. — 
Burns. 

My love was once a bonny lad. 

He was the flower of all his kin. 
The absejice of his bonny face 

Has r(;nt my tender heart in twain, 
day nor night find no delight, 

In silent tears I still complain ; 
And exclaim 'gainst those my rival foes, 

That ha'e ta'en from me my darling swain. 

Despair and anguish fills my breast, 

Since I have lost my blooming rose ; 
I sigh and moan while others rest, 

His absence yields me no repose. 
To seek my love I'll range and lOve, 

Thro' every grove and distant plain ; 
Thus I'll ne'er cease, but spend my days, 

To liear tidings from my darling swain. 

There's naething strange in Nature's change. 

Since parents shew such cruelty ; 
They caus'd my love from me to range. 

And knows not to what destiny. 
The pretty kids and tender lambs 

Mcy cease to sport upon the plain ; 
But I'll mourn and lament in deep discontent 

For the absence of my darling swain. 

Kind Neptune, let me thee entreat, 

To send a fair and pleasant gale ; 
Ye dolphins sweet, upon me wait. 

And convey me on your tail ; 
Heavens bless my voyage with success, 

While crossing ot the raging main, 
And send me safe o'er to that distant shore, 

T» meet my lovely darling swain. 

All joy and mirth at our return 

Shall then abound from Tweed to Tay ; 
The bells shall ring and sweet birds sing, 

To grace and crown our nuptial day. 
Thus bless'd wi' charms in my love's arms, 

My heart once more I will regain ; 
Then I'll range no more to a distant shore, 

But in love will enjoy my darling swain. 



CHARLIE, .5E'S MY DARLINO 

OLD VERSES. 

Tune — *' Charlie is ray darling." 

*TwAS on a Monday morning, 

Richt early in the year, 
That Charlie cam to our toun, 
The young Chevalier. 

And Charlie he's my darling^ 

My darlhiff, my darling ; 
Charlie he s ->iy darling., 
The young Chevalier. 

As he was walking up the street, 

The city for to view, 
O there he spied a bonnie lass. 

The window looking through. 
And Charlie, Sfg. 

Sae licht's he jumped up the stair. 

And tirled at the pin ; 
And wha sae ready as herseil, 

To Jet the laddie in ! 

And Charlie, ift. 

He set his Jenny on his knee, 

All in his Highland dress ; 
For brawly weel he kenned the w$J 

To please a bonnie lass. 

Atid Charlie, S^c. 

It's up yon heathy mountain, 

And down yon scroggy glen, 
We daurna gang a- milking, 

For Charlie and his men. 
And Charlie, Sfc 



THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK 

Up with the souters of Selkirk, 

And down with the Earl of Home ! 

And up wi* a' the brave lads, 
Wha sew the single-soled shoon ! 

O ! fye upon yellow and yellow. 
And fye upon yellow and green ; 

And up wi' the true blue and scarlft, 
And up wi' the single-soled shoon ! 

Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — 

Up wi' the lingle and last ! 
There's fame wi' the days that's coming 

And glory wi' them that are past. 

Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — 
Lads that are trusty and leal ; 

And up with the men of the Forest, 
And down wi' the Merse to the deil ' 

O ! mitres are made for noddles, 
But feet iiey are made for shoon : 



SONGS. 



153 



4nd fame is as sib to Selkirk 
As light is true to the mooa, 

There sits a souter in Selkirk, 

Wha sings as he draws his thread— 

There's gallaut souters in Selkiik 
A* 'ang there's water in Tweed. 



CRAIL TOUN.* 
•• Tune—" Sir John Malcolm." 

Aw D was ye e'er in Crail toun ? 

Igo and ago ; 
And saw ye there Clerk Dishington?f 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

His wit; was like a doukit hen, 

Igii and ago ; 
The tail o't like a goose-pen, 

Sing ironj, igon, ago. 

And d-nna ye ken Sir John Malcolm? 

ic;<j and ago ; 
Gin he's a wise man I mistak him, 

Sing irura, igon, ago. 

And hand ye weel frae Sandie Don, 

Igo and ago ; 
He's t^n times dafter nor Sir John, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

To hear them o' their travels talk, 

Igo and ago ; 
To gae to Loudon's but a walk, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

To see the wonders o* the deep, 

Igo and ago, 
Wad gar a man baith wail and weep, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

To .see the leviathan skip, 

Igo and ago, 
And wi' bin tail ding ower a ship, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 



• There is a wjtnewhat different version of this 
itranae sung iii Herd's Collection, 1776. The prtsent, 
which I thnk the best, is copied from the Scottish 
Minstrel. 

t The person known in Scottish song and tradition 
by the epithet (.'lerk Ui.shington, was a notary who re. 
R'ied alx'ut ihe middle of the last century in Crail, 
«id acted as the town-clerk of that ancient burgh. I 
have been intbrmctl that he was a person of great local 
seletrity tn his ume, as -in uncompromising humour- 



MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O 



tune—" My only jo and dean«, Ot" 

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue. 

My only jo and dearie, O ; 
Thy neck is o' the siller dew, 

Upon the bank sue briery, O. 
Thy tt:etli are o' the ivory, 

sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee : 
Nae joy, nae |>leasure blinks on me. 

My only jo and dearie, O. 

When we were bairnies on. yon brae, 
And youth was blinkin' bonuie, O, 

Aft we wad daff the lee iang day, 
Our joys fu' sweet and monie, O. 

Aft I wad chase thee ower the lee. 

And round about the thorny tree ; 

Or pu' the wild flow'rs a' for thee, 
My only jo and dearie, O. 

1 hae a wish I canna tine, 

*Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O ; 
A wish that thou wert ever mine. 

And never mair to leave me, O ; 
Then I wad daut thee nicht and day, 
Nae ither warldly care I'd hae. 
Till life's warm stream forgat to play, 

My only jo and dearie, O. 



FAIRLY SHOT O' HER. 

Tune—" Fairly shot o' her.* 

O gin I were fairly shot o' hert 

Fairly, fairly, fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot o' her f 

If she were dead, I wad dance on the top a* her, 

Till we were married, I couldua see licht tiS 

her ; 
For a month after, a' thing aye gaed richt wf 

her : 
But these ten years I hae prayed for a wrigfl- 

to her — 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! Sfc. 

Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi' 

her : 
The neebours and bairns are fain to flee frae her; 
And I my ainsell am forced to gie way till her : 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot u' her ! ^c 

She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckie pride 

in her ; 
There's no a gudewife in the haill country-sida 

like her . 



* Richard Gall, the son of a dealer in old furniture 
(a St Mary's Wynd, Kdinburuh, was broujjht up t4 
the business of a printer, an(i died at an early age 
about the beginning ul the present •entury. 

N9. 



154 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Wi* dress and wi' dnnk. thedeilwadna bidewi' 

her: 
O gin I were faiily shot o* her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot o* her ! Sfc. 

If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate 

wi' her, 
And into the yird I'd mak mysell quit o' her, 
I'd then he as blythe as first when I met wi* 

her : 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin. I were fairly shot o' her 1 S^c. 



FALSE LUVE ! AND HAE YE PLAY'D 
ME THIS. 

False luve ! and hae ye play'd me this, 

In summer, 'mid the flowers? 
I shall repay ye back again 

In winter, 'mid the showers. 

But again, dear luve, and again, dear luve, 

Will ye not turn again ? 
As ye look to other women 

Shall I to other mea ?• 



FARE YE WE EL, MY AULD WIFE. 

And fare ye weel, my auld wife ; 

Sing bum, bee, berry, bum ; 
Fare ye weel, my auld wife ; 

Sing bum, bum, bum. 
Fare ye weel, my auld wife, 
The steerer up o' sturt and strife. 
The maut 's ahune the meal the nicht, 
Wi' some, some, some. 

And fare ye weel, my pike-stafF; 

Sing bum, bee, berry, bum : 
Fare ye weel, my pike-stafF; 

Sine bum, bum, bum. 
Fare ye weel, my pike-staff, 
W'"* vou nae mair u.y wife I'll baff; 
The maut's abuue the meal the nicht, 

Wi' some, some, some. 



GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR. 

It fell about the Martinmas time. 
And a guy time it was than. 



* From Herd's Collection, 1776.~A slightly diflter. 
int version is put by Sir Walter Scott into the mouth 
of Davie Gellalley, in the celebrated novel of Waver- 



l*.v 



" False love, and hast thou play'd me thit. 
In summer, ainong 'he flowers? 

I will repay thee bact again 
In winter, among the showers. 

"Unless again, again, my love. 

Unless you turn again, 
tki you with other maidens rove, 

I'll srailf* on other men " 



When our gudewife had puddins to ciftkt 
And she boil'd them in the pan. 
And the harrin* o' our door weil, weL^ »e«l^ 
And the barrin' o' our door weil. 

The wind blew cauld frae south to north, 

It blew into the floor ; 
Says our gudeman to our gudewife, 

Get up and bar the do(»r. 
And the harrin\ S^c. 

My hand is in my hussyfe skep, 

Gudeman, as ye may see ; 
An it shouldna be barr'd this hunner yeai^ 

It's no be barr'd for me. 
And the barrin, 8fc. 

They made a paction 'tween them twa, 

They made it firm and sure, 
The first that spak the foremost word 

Should rise and bar the door. 
And the barrin', SfC. 

Then by there came twa gentlemen. 

At twelve o'clock at night ; 
And they could neither see house nor ha*j 

Nor coal nor candle-licht. 
Atid the barrin', Sfc. 

Now whether is this a rich man's house. 

Or whether is this a puir ? 
But never a word wad ane o' them speak, 

For the barrin* o' the door. 
A'mI the bar? in', S^c. 

And first tuey ate the white puddins, 

And syne they ate the black ; 
And nmckle thocht our gudewife to hersellf 

But never a word she spak. 
And the barrin', SfC. 

Then said the tane unto the tother, 

Hae, man, take ye my knife, 
Do ye tak aff the auld nian's beard, 

And I'll kiss the gudewife. 
And the barrin', Sfc. 

But there's nae water in the house. 

And what shall we do than ? 
What ails ye at the puddin' broo, 

That boils into the pan? 
And the barrin', |rc. 

O, up then startit oui ?:udeman. 

And an angry man was he : 
Wad ye kiss iny wife before my face, 

And scaud me wi' puddin* bree ? 
And the barrin*, SfC. 

Then up and startit our gudewife, 

Gi'ed three sKips on the floor : 
Gudemian, ye've spoken the foierr -et wora, 

Get up and bar the door.* 
And the barrin'. Sec. 



• From Herd's Collection, 1776.— Tradition, as re. 
ported m Johnson's Musical Museum, affirms that tiM 



SONGS. 



ISfi 



LOG IE O' BUCHAN. 

Tunt—" Logic o' Buclian.* 

O. L5GIE ()' Buch.m, O, Logie, the lairu, 
They h;ie ta'en awa Jamie that delved in the 

yjird ; 
He playM on the pipe and the viol sae 8ma' ; 
They hae ta'en awa Jamie, the flower o' them a*. 
He said. Think na lang, lassie, though I 

gang awa , 
He said. Think na lang, lassie, though I 

gang awa ; 
For the simmer is coming, cauld winter's 

awa. 
And I'll come back and see thee in spite o' 
them a\ 

O, Sandie has uwsen, and siller, and kye, 
A house and a haddin, and a' things forbye, 
But I wad hae Jamie, wi's bonnet in's hand, 
Before I'd hue Siindy wi' houses and land. 
He said, Sfc. 

My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour, 
They frown upon Jamie, because he is poor ; 
But daddie and minnie although that they be, 
There's nane o' them a' like my Jamie to me. 
He said, Sfc. 

I sit on my creepie, and spin at my wheel. 
And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel ; 
He had hut ae sixpence — he br.ik it in twa, 
Aud he gi'ed me the hauf o't when he gaed awa. 
Then. Iinste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa. 
Then haste ge back. Jamie, and bide na awa ; 
Simmer is coniin , cauld winter's awa, 
And yell come and see ine in spite o' them 



" Kudeman" of this son? was a person of the name of 
John Blunt, who lived of yore in Crawford- Muir. 
There are two tunes to which it is often sung. One of 
them is in most of the Collections of Scottish Tunes; 
the other, though to appearance equally ancient, seems 
to have been preserved by tradition alone, as we have 
lever seen it ni print. A third tune, to ivhich we have 
neard this song sung, by only one person, an American 
R:id(nl we suspect to h:ive been -mported from his 
own X) mtry. 

* " I ogie o' Buchan" is stated by Mr. Peter Buchan 
of Peterhead, in his (Meanings of Scarce Old Ballads 
M8 7). to have been the comiwsition of Mr. George 
Ha>.i4et, and to have been written by him while school- 
master of Ratlien, in Aberdeenshire, about the year 
1736. " The poetry of this individual," says Mi. 
Bu«-han, " waschieflj Jacobitical, and long remained 
familiar amongst the peasantry in tiiat quarter of the 
country : One >if the best knoAn of these, at the pre- 
9enr, is ' Wherry, Whigs, awa, man!' In 1746, Mr. 
Hallcet wrote a dialogue betwixt Oeorge II. and the 
Devil, which falling into the hands of the Duke of 
C.imbeilan<l wliile on his march to CnHoden, he of- 
fere<l one hundred jKjurids reward for the person or 
the head of its author. Mr. Halket died in 7.56. 

" The Logic litre nieiuioned, is m one of the ad- 
'roining parishes (Cramond) where Mr. Halket then 
resiile<l; ai.d the hero of the pit-ce was a James Ru. 
kertson, gaxdeuer at the place of Logie." 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S 
A\VA. 

Tune—" Here's a health to them that* s awa. ' 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to them that were here shorl 
syne, 
And canna be here the day. 

It s gude to be merry and wise ; ' 

It'.s gude to be honest and true ; 
It's gude to be aff wi' the auld love, 

Before ye be on wi* the new. 



HEY, CA' THROUGH. 

Tune-—" Hey, ca' through.* 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 

And the lads o' Buckhaven, 
And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the laS3es o' Leven. 

Hey, ca' through, cu' throughy 

For we hae muckle ado : 
Hey, ca' through, ca' through^ 
For loe hae muckle ado. 

We hae tales to tell. 

And we hae sangs to sing ; 
We hae pennies so spend, 

And we hae pints to bring. 

Hey, ca' through, ^e. 

We'li live a' our days ; 

And them that comes behin', 
Let them do the like, 

And spend the gear they win. 

Hey, ca' through, 8fe» 



LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT AVE 

CLUNIE. 

Tune—" My lodging is on the cold ground." 

I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane ; 

He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me. 
He's willing to mak me his aia ; 

And his ain I am willing to be. 
He has coft me a rokelay o' blue, 

And a pair o' mittens ^' green ; 
The price was a kiss o' my mou! ; 

And I paid him the debt yestreen. 

Let ithers brag weel o' their gear, 

Their land, and their lordly degree, 
I carena for ought but my dear. 

For he's ilka thing lordly to me : 
His words are sae sugar'd, sae sweet ' 

His sense drives ilk fear far awa ! 
T listen — poor fool ! and 1 greet ; 

Yet how sweet are the tears as thev £»* • 



156 



BURNS* WORKS. 



AYE WAUKING, O. 

THE ORIGINAL SONG, FROM RECITATION. 

I'm wet, wet, 

O I'm wet and weary ! 
Yet fain wad I rise and rln. 

If I thought I wjuld meet my deary. 
Ay wauking, O ! 

Wauking aye, and weary, 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking o' my deary. 

Simmer's a pleasant time, 

Flowers of every cefourj 
The water rins ower ice heugh— 

And I kng for my true lover 
Ay wauking, SfC 

When I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie ; 
Sleep I can get nane 
. For thinking o' my deary. 

Ay wauking, 8fc, 

Lanely night comes on ; 
A* the lave are sleeping ; 

1 think on my love, 

And blear my een wi' greeting. 
Ay wauking, Sfc. 

Feather-beds are soft, 

PainteJ rooms are bonnie ; 
But a kiss my dear love 

Is better ar than ony. 

Ay wauking, 8^ 



KELVIN GROVE. 

JOHN LVLE. 

Kelvin Grove." 



To the streamlet winding clear. 
To the fragrant-scented brier, 
E'en to thee of all most dear, bonnie l&s&ie, O, 

For the frowns of fortune low'r, bonnie lassie^ O 
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O ' 
Ere the golden orb of day, 
Wakes the warblers from the spray. 
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O. 

And when on a distant shore, bonnie lassie, O 
Should I fall 'midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O 

Wilt thou, Helen, when you hear 

Of thy lover on his bier, 
To his memory shed a tear, b iiiiie lassie? O.* 



Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O 
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O ; 

Where the rose in all its pride 

Decks the hollow dingle's side. 
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. 

We will wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O, 
To the ceve beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O ; 

Where the glens rebound the call 

Of the lofty waterfall, 
Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie 
lassie, O. 

Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonnie lassie, O, 
Where so oft, beneath its shade, bonnie lassie, O, 

With the songsters in the grove. 

We have told our tale of love, 
And have sportive garlands wove, bon.3ie lassie, O. 

Ah I I soon must bid aa'ieu, bonnie lassie, O, 
i'o this ^airy scene and you, bonnie lassie, O, 



BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Tune — •* Blue Bonnets over the Border."* 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 

Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward i* 
order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesd»,le ; 

All the blue bonnets are over the Border. 
Many a banner spread flutters above your head 

Many a crest that is famous in story ; 
Mount and make ready, then, sons of the mour*" 
tain glen ; 
Fight for your Queen and the old Scottish 
glory. 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are gra*- 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe j 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 

Come with the ^iickler, the lance, and the bow 
Trumpets are sounding, war steeds are bounding ; 

Stand to your arms, and march in good order. 
England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray^ 

When the blue bonnets came over the Border 



COMIN* THROUGH THE RYE. 
2Vn<k— •♦ Gin a Body meet a Bodv. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' through the rye. 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry ? 
Ev'ry lassie has her lattdie, 

Nane, they say, hae I ! 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me. 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e mysell ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name^ 
1 dinna care to tell. 



* Kelvin Gr. ve is a beautifully wcx)ded dell, abotf 
tv/o miles fn »m Glasgow, forming a snt of loverif wa> 
for the lads and lasses of that city. 



SOI^JGS. 



Q iii a body moet a body, 

Comin' frae the town, 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown ? 
Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, 

Nane, they say, hae I ! 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me, 

Wiien comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I deaiiy lo'e mysell ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
[ dinna care to tell. 



DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE. 
Tune — " The Smith's a gallant fireman." 

n DixxA think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun tO' 

leave thee ; 
Dinnti think, bonnie ^assie, I'm gaun to leave: 

thee ; 
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave; 

tliee ; 
I'll tak a stick into my hand, and come agsiini 

and see thee. 

Far's tlie gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the 

night and eerie ; 
Far's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the 

night and eerie ; 
Far's the gate ye hae to gang; dark's the 

night and eerie ; 
O stay this night wi' your love, and dinna 

gang and leave me. 
It's but a night and hauf a day that I'll leave 

my deaj-ie ; 
But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my 

dccu-ie ; 
But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my 

dearie ; 
Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch I'll 

come again and see thee. 
Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang ajid 

leave me ; 
Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and 

leave me : 



Wliile the winds and waves do roar, 1 xm 

wae and dreaiy ; 
And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna ^ang 

and leave me. 

O never mair, bonnie lassie; will I gang and 

leave thee ; 
Never mair, bonnie lassie ,will I gang and 

leave thee ; 
Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and 

leave thee; 
E'en let the world gang as it will, I'll stay 

at hame and cheer thee. 

Frae his hand he coost his stick ; I winna 

gang and leave thee ; 
Threw his plaid into the neuk ; never can 1 

grieve thee ; 
Drew his boots, and flang them by ; cried my 

lass, be cheerie ; 
I'll kiss the tear frae aff thy check, and 

never leave my dearie. 



BONNIE MARY HAY. 

CRAWFORD 

Bonnie Mary Hay, I will loe thee yet ; 
For thine eye is the slae, and thy hair is the jet , 
The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy 

cheek ; 
O, bonnie Mary Hay, I will loe thee yet I 

O, bonnie Mary Hay, will ye gang wi' me, 
When the sun's in the west, to the hawthorn 

tree, 
To the hawthoKn tree, and the bonnie berry 

den? 
And I'll tell thee, Mary Hay, how I loe thoa 

then. 



O, bonnie Mary Hay, it is haliday to me. 
When thou art couthie,kind, and free ; 
There's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in 

the sky, 
Bonnie Meiry Hay, when thou art nigh. 
When a' the lave are sound aslee]), I'm dull | O, bonnie Mary Hay, thou mauna say me nay 



and eerie ; 

\nd a' the lee-lang nig-ht I 'm sad, wi' think- 
ing on my dearie. 
dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to 

leave thee ; 
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'mgaim to leave 

Uiee ; 
Dmna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 

thee ; 
When e'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I'll come 

again and see thee. 
'»Vr.<es ^le risin*? o'er the sea; wmds blaw 

loud and fear me ; 
V iv,;; •I'-'; visijii^ '>'er the sea ; M'inds blaw 

!'»ud and feat me. 



But come to the bower, by the hawthorn b-ae ; 
But come to the bower, and I'll tell ye a' what'a 

true, 
How, »onnie Mary Hay, I can loe nane but 

yon. 



CARLE, AN THE KING COME. 

Tune — " Carle, an the King come." 

Carle, an the king come. 
Carle, an the king come. 
Thou shalt dance and I will sing, 
Carle, an t) e ki"ar come 





158 BURNS* WORKS 


An somebody were come again, 


Be frank now and kindlv — I'll busk ye ay« 


Then somebody maun cross the main j 


finely; 


And every man shall hae his ain, 


To kirk or to market there'll few gang sue braw j 


Carle, an the king come. 


A bien house to bine in, a chaise for to ride in, 




And flunkies to 'tend yo as aft as ye ca'. 


I trow we swappit for the worse ; 




We ga'e the boot and better horse ; 


My father aye tauld me, my mother and a'. 


And that we'll tell them at the corse, 


Ye'd niak a gude husband, and keep me aye 


Carle, an the king come. 


braw ; 




It's true, I lo'e Johnnie ; he's young and he'a 


When yellow corn grows on the rigs, 


bonnie ; 


And g'bbets stand to hang the Whigs, 


But, wae's me ! I ken he has naething ava ! 


O, then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs, 


I hae little tocher ; ye've made a gude offer ; 


Carle, an the king come. 


Im now mair than twenty ; my time is but 
sma' ! 


Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine, 


Sae gie my your plaidie ; I'll cz'fcep in beside ye ; 


As we hae done — a dog's propine — 


1 thocht ye'd been aulder than three score and 


But quaff our draughts o' rosy wine. 


twa! 


Carle, an the king come. 






She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa'. 


Cogie, an the king come. 


Whare Johnnie was listnin*, and heard her tell a*. 


Cogie, an the king come, 

I'se be fou and thou'se be toom 


The day was appointed ! — his proud heart it 
dunted, 


Cogie, an the king come.* 


And strack 'gainst his side, as if burstin' in 

twa. 
He wander'd hame wearie, the nicht it was 






drearie. 


COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE. 


And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep 
snaw I 


MACNIKL. 


The howlet was screamin*, while Johnnie cried, 




Women 


Tutu—" John»y M'Gill " 


Wad marry auld Nick, if he'd keep them aye 




braw. 


Come under my plaidie ; the night's gaun to fa' ; 




Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the 


0, the deil's in the lasses ! they gang now sae 


snaw : 


braw, 


Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 


They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and 


There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for 


twa ; 


twa. 


The hail o' their marriage is gowd and a car- 


Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me; 


riage: 


I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw: 


Plain love is the cauldest blast now th:t can 


Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 


blaw. 


There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for 


Auld dotards, be wary ! tak tent when ye 


twa. 


marry ; 




Young wives, wi' their coaches, they'll whif 


Gae 'wa wi' yere plaidie ! auld Donald, gae 'wa ; 


and they'll ca', 


' fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw ! 


Till they meet wi' some Johnnie that's youtW 


Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie ! I'll no sit beside ye ; 


fu' and bonnie. 


Ye micht be my gutcher ! auld Donald, gae 'wa. 


And they'll gie ye horns on ilk hafet to claw. 


I'm gaun to meet Johnnie — he's young and he's 




bonnie ; 
He's been at Meg's bridal, fou trig and fou braw ! 






Nane dancss sae lichtly, sae gracefu', or tichtly, 




His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like 


DUSTY MIT.T.F.R. 


the snaw ! 






T9'^^" The dusty Miller.* 


Dear Marion, let that flee stick to the wa' ; 




Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava ; 


Hey, ine dusty miller. 


The haill o' his pack he has now on his back ; 


And his dusty coat ! 


He's thretty, and I am but thref score and twa. 


He will win a shilling. 




Ere he spend a groat. 
Dusty was the coat. 




• Thisisanold favourite cavalier song ; the chorus. 


Dusty was the colour; 


at least. IS as old as the time of the Commonwealth, 


Dusty was the kiss. 


when the return ol King Charles II. was a matter of 
iaily prayer to the Loyalists. 


That I gat frae the millet '. 


i 



SONGS. 



159 



Hey, the dusty miller, 

And liis dusty sack ! 
Leeze ine on the calling 

Fills the dusty peck ; 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty sille! 
I wad gie my coatie 

For the dusty miller. 



THE ^^ARY FUND O* TOW. 

FROM RECITATION. 

J^ne — " The weary pund o* tow." 

1 BOUGHT my wife a stane o' lint 

As good as ere did grow. 
And a' that she could make o* that 

Was ae weary pumi o' tow. 
The weary pund, the weary pund, 

Tlie weary pund o' tow, 
I thought my wife would end her life 

Before she span her tow. 

I look it to my yarn- nag, 

And it grew never mair ; 
I lookit to my beef-stand— 

My heart grew wonder sair ; 
I lookit to my meal-boat, 

And O, but it was howe ! 
I think my wife will end her life 

Afore she spin her tow. 

But if your wife and ray wife 

Were in a boat thegither. 
And yon other man's wife 

Were in to steer the ruther ; 
And if the boat were bottomless, 

And seven mile to row, 
I think they'd ne'er come harae again, 

To spin the pund o' tow I 



THE LANDART LAIRD. 

There lives a landart* laird in Fife, 
And he has married a dandily wife : 
She wadna shape, nor yet wad she sew, 
But sit wi' her cummers, and fill bersell fix' 

She wadna spin, nor yet wad she card ; 
But she wad sit and crack wi' the laird. 
Sae he is doun to the sheep- fauld, 
And cleekit a wetherf by the spauld.^ 

He's whirled aff the gude wether's skin. 
And wrapped the dandily lady therein. 
* I downa pay you, for your gentle kin ; 
But weel may I skelp my wether's skin.§ 



KEEP THE COUNTRY, BONNIE 

LASSIE. 

Keep the Country, bonnie LassiA 



Keep the country, bonnie lassie, 

Keep the country, keep the country ; 

Keep the country, bonnie lassie ; 
Lads will a' gie gowd for ye : 

Gowd for ye, bonnie lassie, 

Gowd for ye, gowd for ye : 
Keep the country, bonnie lassie ; 

Lads will a' gie gowd for ye. 



HAP AND ROW THE FERTIE O't 

WILLIAM CKR-KCH.* 

T^ine—" Hap and Rowe the Feetie 6^* 

We*U hap and row, taell hnp and roWf 

Well hap and rotv t/ie fettle o't. 
It is a wee bit tveary thing : 
I downa bide the greetie o't. 

And we pat on the wee bit pan, 

To boil the lick o' meatie o't ; 
A cinder fell and spoil'd the plan. 

And burnt a* the feetie o't. 
We'll hap and row, Sfc. 

Fu' sair it grat, the puir wee brat, 
And aye it kicked the feetie o't. 

Till, puir w^e elf, it tired itself; 
And then began the sleepie o't. 
We*ll hap and row, §-c. 

The skirling brat nae parritch gat, 
When it gaed to the sleepie o't ; 

It's waesome true, instead o' t's mou*j 

They're round about the feetie o't, 

We^ll hap and row, 8fc. 



JUMPIN* JOHN 
Tune — " Jumpin' John 

Her daddie forbade, her minnie forbade ; 

Forbidden she wadna be. 
She wadna trow't, the l)rowst she brewed, 
Wad taste sae bitterlie. 

The long lad ihey c«' Jvmpin John 

Beguiled tht- bonnie lassie ; 
The long lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Heguiled the bmnde hissie. 



• Landward—ihat is, living in a part of the country 
•t some distance from any town. 

t Wedder. J Shoulder. 

\ ITiis curious and most amusing old ditty is from 
afr Jaini^son's " Popular Ballads and Songs/' 1806. 



• A gentleman long ;it ttie heart of the bookselling 
trade in Ldinburgh, and who had Iceii Lord Provosi 
of the city. A volume of his miscellaneous prose es- 
says has been published, under tlie title of " Eclinburgh 
Fugitive Pieces." He was not only remarkable toi 
his literary accomplishments, but also for his conver 
sational powers, which were such as to open to hinr 
the society of the highest literary men of his day. 





. . 1 




60 BURNS* 


WORKS. 




K cow ana a cauf, a yowe and a hauf» 


O Donald Couper and hi s tna»> 




And thretty gude shillings and three ; 


Held to a Highland fair, man* 




A veiy gude tocher, a cottar man's dochter. 


And a' to seek a bonnie lass — 




The lass wi' the bonnie black ee. 


But fient a ane was there, man. 




The long lad, §-c. 


At length he got a carline gray, 

And she's come hirplin hame, man j 
And she's fawn owie the buffet stool, 










And brak her rumple-bane, man. 




DEAR ! MINNIE, WHAT SHALL I DO ? 






Tune—" O dear ! mother, what shall I do ?" 






** Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 


LITTLE WAT YE WHA'S COMIKC 




Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 






Oh dear ! minnie, vvha^ shall I do ?" 


Tune—" Little wat ye wha's coinin|c,» 




" Daft thing, doiled thing, do as I do." 


Little wat ye wha's coming, 




'* If I be black, I canna be lo'ed ; 


Lirr rat ye wha's coming. 




If I be fair, I canna be gude ; 


Litti vMt ye wha's coming ; 




If I be lordly, the lads will look by me ; 


Jock 1x1 Tam and a' 's coming ! 




Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?** 


Dunc-r • i;oming, Donald's coming, 




" Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do? 


Coli " Muing, Ronald's coming. 




Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 


DoUj, coming, Lauchlan's coming. 




Oh dear ' minnie, what shall I do ?** 


Alistej aiul a' 's coming ; 




* Daft thing, doiled thing, do as I do." 


Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's coming ; 










Jock and Tam and a' 's coming ! 




KILLIECRANKIE, O. 


Borland and his men's coming. 




Tune—" The braes o' Killiecmnkie." 


The Camerons and Maclean's coming. 
The Gordons and Macgregor's coming, 
A' the Duniewastles coming ! 




Where hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 




Where hae ye been sae braokie, ? 






Where hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 


Little wat ye wha's coming. 




Cam ye by Killiecrankie, ? 


Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's coming; 




An ye had been where I hae been, 




Ye wadna been sae cantie, ; 
An ye had seen what I hae seen 


MacGilvray o' Drumglass is coming 1 




On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 0. 


Winton's coming, Nithsdale's coming, 
Carnwath's coming, Kenmure's coming, 
Derwentwater and Foster's coming. 




I've faught at land, I've faught at sea ; 




At hame I faught my auntie, ; 


Withrington and Nairn's coming ! 




But I met the deevil and Dundee, 




On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O ! 


Little wat ye wha's coming. 




An ye had been, S;c. 


Little wat ye wha's coming, 
Little wat ye wha's coming ; 




The bauld Pitcur fell in a fiur, 


Blythe Cowhill and a' 's coming ! 




And Claverse gat a clankie, ; 






Or I had fed an Athole gled. 


The Laird o' Macintosh is coming. 




On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 


Macrabie and Macdouald's coming. 




An ye had been, 3^c. 


The Mackenzies and Macphersons comini^ 
A' the wild Mac Craws coming ! 

Little wat ye wha's coming, 








DONALD COLTER. 


Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's coming ; 




Tune—" Donali Couper and his man." 


Donald Gun and a' 's coming ' 




^ET Donald, howe Donald, 


They g<oom, they glowr, they look sae bi§ 




Hey Donald Conner ! 


At ilka stroke they'll fell a Whig; 




fle's gane awa to seek a wife, 


They'll fright the fuds of the Pockpuda; 




And he's come hame without her. 


For mony a ) uttock bare's coming. 



161 



Little wat ye wha 9 coming, 
Little wat ye wha 3 coming, 
Little wat ye wha's coming ; 
Mony a buttock hare's coming ! 



OCH HEY, JOHNNIE LAD 

TANNAUILL. 

OcH hey, Johnnie lad, 

Ye' re no sae kin<r9 ye sou'd hae been ; 
'.>ch hey, Johnnie lad, 

Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen. 
1 waited lan^ beside the wood, 

Sae wae and weary a' my lane : 
Ocb hey, Johnnie lad, 

It waa a waefu' nicht yestreen ! 

I lookit by the whinny knowe, 

I lookit by the firs sae green ; 
I lookit ower the spunkie howe. 

And aye I thocht ye wad hae been. 
The ne'er a supper cross'd my craig. 

The ne'er a sleep has closed my een 
Och hey, Johnnie lad, 

Ye're no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been 

Gin ye were waitin' by the wood, 

lt*» I was waitin* by the thorn ; 
I thocht it was the place we set. 

And waited maist till dawnin' morn. 
But be nae beat, my bonnie la'w. 

Let my waitin' stand for thine ; 
We'll awa to Craigtoo shaw, 

And seek the joys we tint yestreen. 



OUR GUDEMAN CAar HAME AT E'EN. 

Obr gudeman cam hame at e'en, 

And hame earn he ; 
And there he saw a saddle-horse, 

Where nae horse should be. 
Oh, how cam this horse here? 

How can this be ? 
How cam this horse here ? 

Without the leave o' me? 
A horse ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a horse, qui?' he. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle. 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a bonnie miJk-cow, 

My mither sent to me. 
A milk-cow ! quo' he ; 
Aye, a milk -cow, quo' ahe. 
Far hae I ridden, 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But a sadrlle on a milk-cow 

Saw I never nane. 



Oar gudeman cam hame at e eilf 

And hame cam he ; 
He spied a pair o' jack-boots, 
Where nae boots should be. 
WTiat's this now, gudewife ? 

Wliat's this I see ? 
How cam thae boots here, 
Without the leave o' me? 
Boots ! quo' she ; 
Aye, boots, quo' he. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle. 

And blinder mat ye be . 
It's but a pair o' water-stoups, 
The cooper sent to me. 
Watcr-Hto\ips ! quo' he ; 
Aye, water-stoups, qiv^'sbe^ 
Far hae I ridden, 

And nuickle hae 1 seen ; 
But siller-spurs on water-stoupB 
Saw I never nane. 

Our gudeman cam hame at e'een, 

And hame cam he ; 
And there he saw a siller sword, 

Where nae sword should be. 
What's this now, gudewife ? 

What's this I see ? 
O how cam tkis sword here, 

Without the leave o* me ? 
A sword . que sne 
Aye, a sword, quo' he 
Ye auld blind dotard rarle, 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a parridge-spurtle. 

My minnie sent to me. 

A parridge-spurtle ! quo* h? ; 
Aye, a parridge-spurtle, quo' sW 
Weel, far hae I ridden, 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But siller-handed parridge-spurtles 

Saw I never nane. 

Our gudeman cam hame at e'en. 

And hame cam he ; 
And there he spied a powder d wig, 

Where nae wig should be. 
What's this now, gudewife ? 

What's this I see ? 
How cam this wig here. 

Without the leave o' me ? 
A wig ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a wig, quo' be. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle, 

And blmder mat ye be ! 
Tis naething but a clocken hen 

My minnie sent to me. 
A clocken-heu ! quo' he ; 
Aye, a clocken hen, quo* she- 
Far hae I ridden, 

And muckle hae I seen. 
But pouther on a clocken-hen 

Saw 1 never nane. 

Our gudeman cam hame at e*en^ 
And Uame cam he ; 



162 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And rter* he saw a mickle coat. 

Where nae coat should be. 
How cam this coat here? 

How can this be ? 
How cam this coat here, 
Without the leave o' me ? 
A e lat ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a coat, quo' he. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle, 
And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a pair o* blankets 
My mlnnie sent to me. 
Blankets ! quo' he ; 
Aye, blankets, quo' she 
Far hae I ridden, 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But buttons upon blankets 
Saw 1 never nane ! 

Ben gaed our gudeman, 

And ben gaed he ; 
And there he spied a sturdy man, 

Where nae man should be. 
How cam this man here? 

How can this be ? 
How cam this man here, 

Without the leave o* me? 
A man ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a man,, quo' he. 
Puir blind body, 

And blinder mat you be ! 
It's but a new milkin' maid. 

My mither sent to me. 
A maid ! quo' he ; 
Aye, a maid, quo' she. 
Far tiae 1 ridden, 

And muckle hae I seen, 
But lang-bearded maidens 

Saw i never nane. 



GO TO BERWICK, JOHNIE. 
Go to Berwick Johnie." 



Go to Berwick, Johnie ; 

Bring her frae the Border ; 
Yon sweet bonnie lassie, 

Let her gae nae farther. 
English loons will twine ye 

O' the lovely treasure ; 
But we'll let them ken, 

A sword wi' them we'll 



Go to Berwick, Johnie, 

And regain your honour ; 
Drive them ower the Tweed, 

And show our Scottish banner. 
I am Rob the king, 

And ye are Jock, ray brither ; 
But, before we lose her, 

We'll a* there thegither.* 



• This popular rant is from Johnson's Musical Mu- 
jum, vol. VI., 1803. Ritson, in his Scottish Songs, 



IF YE'LL BE MY DAWTIE, \ND SIT 
IN MY PLAID. 

Tune—" Hie, Bonnie Lassie." 

Hie, bonnie lassie, blink over the burn, 
And if your sheep wander I'll gie them a turn 
Sae happy as we'll be on yonder green shade. 
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 

A yowe and twa lammies are a' my haill stock 
But I'll sell a lammie out o' my wee fock, 
To buy thee a head-piece, sae bonnie and braid 
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid, 

I hae little siller, but ae hauf-year s fee, 
But if ye will tak' it, I'll gie't a' to thee ; 
And then we'll be married, and lie in ae bedi 
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 



I'LL NEVER LEAVE THEE 

RAMSAY. 
JOHNNY. 

Though, for seven years and mair, honour 
should reave me 

To fields where cannons rair, thou needsna 
grieve thee ; 

For deep in my spirit thy sweets are indented ; 

And love shall preserve ay what love has im- 
printed. 

Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee, 

Gang the warld as it will, dearest, believe me ' 

NELLY. 

Oh, Johnny, I'm jealous, whene'er ye discover 
My sentiments yielding, ye'll turn a loose rover ; 
And nought in the world would vex my heart 

sairer. 
If you prove inconstant, and fancy ane fairer. 
Grieve me, grieve me, oh, it wad grieve me, 
A' the lang night and day, if you deceive me ! 

JOHNNY. 

My Nelly, let never sic fancies oppress ye ; 
For, while my blood's warm, I'll kindly careM 

ye: 
Your saft blooming beauties first kindled Iove*« 

fire. 
Your virtue and wit mak it ay flame the higher 
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee, 
Gang the world as it will, dearest, believe me ! 



1793, mentions, th&. he had heard it gravely asserted 
at Edinburgh, that " a foolish song, beginning, 

Go, go, go, go to Berwick, Johnie! 

Thou shalt have the horse, and I shall have the poney 

was made upon one of Wallace's marauding expedl« 
tions, and that che person thus addressed was no othef 
than his fidus Achates, Sir John Graham." 



SONGS. 



163 



NKLLT. 

Thm, Jolmnyr ] I frankly tliis minute allow ye 
To think me your mistress, for love gars me 

trow ye ; 
And gin ye prove false, to yoursell be it said, 

then, 
Ye win but sma* honour to wrang a puir maiden. 
Reave me, reave nie, oh, it would reave me 
Of ray rest, night and day, if you deceive me ! 

JOHNNY. 

Bid ice-shogles hammer red gauds on the studdy, 
Anc fair summer mornings nae mair appear 

ruddy ; 
Bu Br tons think ae gate, and when they obey 

thee. 
But never till that time, believe I'll betray thee. 
Leave thee, leave thee ! I'll never leave thee ! 
The starns shall gae withershins ere I deceive 

thee! 



KATHERINE OGIE. 

As walking forth to view the plain, 

Upon a morning early, 
While May's sweet scent did cheer ray brain, 

From flowers which grow so rarely, 
I chanced to meet a pretty maid ; 

She shined, though it was foggy ; 
ask'd her name : sweet Sir, she said, 

My name is Katherine Ogie. 

I etood a while, and did admire, 

To see a nymph so stately ; 
So brisk an air there did appear, 

In a country maid so neatly : 
Such natural sweetness she display'd, 

Like a Idie in a bogie ; 
Diana's self was ne'er array'd 

Like this same Katherine Ogie. 

Thou flower of females, beauty's queen, 

Who sees tliee, sure must prize thee ; 
Though thou art drest in robes but mean. 

Yet these caonut disguise thee : 
Thy handsome air, and graceful look, 

Far excels any clownish rogie ; 
Thou art a match for lord or duke, 

My charming Katherine Ogie. 

O were I but some shepherd swain ! 

To feed my flock Iwiside thee, 
At boughting-time to leave the plain, 

In milking to abide thee ; 
I'd think myself a happier man. 

With Kate, my club, and dogie. 
Than he that hugs his thousands ten, 

Had I but Katherine Ogie. 



OWER BOGIE. 

ALLAN RAMSAT. 
Tune—" O'er Bogie." 

I WILL awa' wi' my love, 

I will awa' wi' her, 
Though a' my kin had sworn and wid 

I'll ower Bogie wi' her. 
If I can get but her consent, 

I dinna care a strae ; 
Though ilka ane be discontent, 

Awa' wi her I'll gae. 

For now she's mistress o* ray heartf 

And wordy o* my hand ; 
And weel, I wat, we shanna part 

For siller or for land. 
Let rakes delight to swear and drinl^ 

And beaux admire fine lace; 
But my chief pleasure is to blink 

On Betty's bonnie face. 

I will awa' wi' ray love, 

I will awa' wi' her, 
Though a' my kin had sworn and tuAt 
■ I'll o'er Bogie wi* her. 



LASS, GIN YE LO'E ME. 

JAMES TYTLER. 

Tune—" Lass, gin ye lo'e me.* 

I HAE laid a herring in sunt — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now j 
I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut, 

An' I canna come ilka day to woo: 
I hae a calf that will soon be a cow — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a moM[e, 

And I canna come ilka day to woo : 

I hae a house upon yon moor — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
Three sparrows may dance upon tLe floor 

And I canna come ilka day to woo : 
I hae a but, an' I hae a ben — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
A penny to keep, and a penny to spen*, 

An* I canna come ilka day to woo : 

I hae a hen wi* a happitie- leg- 
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; 

That ilka day lays me an egg, 

An' I canna come ilka day to woo t 

I hae a cheese upon my skelf — 
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 

And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself, 
And I canna c )me ilka day to woo^ 



164 



BURNS' WORKS. 



LASSIE, LIE NEAR ME. 



I)R. BLACKLOCK. 



Laddie, lie near me." 

Lang hae we parted been. 

Lassie, my deerie ; 
Now we are met again. 

Lassie, lit "sear me. 

Near me, near me, 
Lassie, lie near me. 

Lang hast thou lain thy lane 
Lassie, lie near me. 

A* that I hae endured, 

Lassie, my dearie. 
Here in thy arms is cured j 

Lassie, lie near me 



LOW DOUN r THE BRUME. • 

Tunt-'" Low doun 1* the Broom." 

My daddie is a cankert carle, 

He'll no twine wi* his gear ; 
My minnie she's a scauldin' wife, 
Hands a' the house asteer. 

But let them say, or let them do, 

Ifx a ane to me, 
For he's low doun, he's in the brume, 

Thai's waitin on me: 
Waiting on me, my love, 

He's waiting on me : 
For he's low doun, he's in the brume, 
That's waitin' on me. 

ftfy auntie Kate sits at her wheel. 

And sair she lightlies me ; 
But weel I ken it's a' envy, 

For ne'er a joe has she. 

A7id let them say, 8fe. 

My cousin Kate was sair beguiled 

Wi* Johnnie o' the Glen ; 
And aye sinsyne she cries, Bewara 

O' fause deluding men. 

And let them, say, Jfc. 

Gleed Sandy he cam wast yestreen, 
And speir'd when I saw Pate ; 

4.nd aye sinsyne the neebors I'ound 
They jeer me air and late. 
And let them say, Sfc, 



« The chorus of this song is very old ; tradition 
ascribes the verses to a Laird of Balnamoon in Forfar- 
ihire: but upon that point the learned differ. It is 
one of th€ most popular ditties in Scotland. 



THE CAMPBELLS AP.E COMING.. 
•jTi^^^" The Campbells are coming." 

TTie Campbells are coming, O-ho, 0-ho f 
The Campbells are cimiing, O-ho ! 

The Campbells are coming to bonnie Jjooh 
leven ! 
The Campbells am coming, O-ho, 0-ho 

Upon the Lomond s I lay, I lay ; 

Upon the Lomonds 1 lay ; 
I lookit doun to boiiiiie Lochleven, 

And saw three perches play. 

The Campbells are coming, Sfe. 

Great Argyie he goes before ; 

He makes the cannons and guns to roai ; 
With sound o' trumpet, pipe, and drum; 

The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho ! 
The Campbells are coming, Sfe. 

The Campbells they are a' in arms. 
Their loyal faith and truth to show. 

With banners rattling in the wind ; 

The Campbells are coming, O-ho, 0-ho ! • 
The Campbells are coming, ^c. 



MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHING A 
HECKLE. 

Tune—" Lord Breadalbane's March." 

O MERRY hae I been teething a heckle, 

And merry hae I been shapin a spune ; 
O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle, 

And kissin my Katie when a' was dune. 
O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, 

And a' the lang day I whistle and sing ; 
A* the lang nicht I cuddle my kimmer. 

And a' the lang nicht as happy 's a kii^. 

Bitter in dule I lickit my winnins, 

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : 
Blest be the hour she cooled in her linens, 

And biythe be the bird that sings over bei 
grave ! 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

And come to my arms, my Katie again ! 
Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie ! 

And blest be the day I did it again ! 



* From Johnson's Musical Museum, Part IIL, 1790, 
where it is insinuated, as an on dit, that it was com- 
posed on the imprisonment of Queen Mary in Loclv 
leven Castle. The Lomonds are two well-knowu 
hills, overhanging Lochleven to the east, and visibh 
from Edinburgh. The air is the well-known famil]f 
tune or march of the Clan rampbell. 





SONGS. 165 


MY AULD MAN. 


Betty, lassy, say't thysell. 


IViw— •' Saw ye my Father f* 


Though thy dame be ill to shoe : 
First we'll buckle, then we'll tell ; 


ijf the land of Fife there lived a wicked wife, 


Let her flyte, and syne come to. 


And in the town of Cupar then, 


Wliat signifies a mother's gloom. 


Who sorely did lament, and made her complaint. 


When love and kisses come in piajr' 


Oh when will ye die, my auld man ? 


Should we wither in our bloom. 




And in simmer mak nae hay ? 


n cam her cousin Kate, when it was growing 
late, 
She said. What's gude for an auld man ? 


For the sake of somebody, §*c. 


Bonny lad, I carena by, 


wheit-hreid and wine, and a kinnen new 


Though I try my luck wi' thee. 


slain ; 


Since ye are content to tie 


That's gude for an auld man. 


Tiie half-mark bridal-band wi* me 




I'll slip hanie and wa^h my feet, 


Cam ye in to jeer, or cam ye in to scorn. 


And steal on linens fair and clean ; 


A;id A'h.it for cam ye in ? 


Syne at the try^ting- place we'll meet, 


For bear-bread and water. I'm sure, is much 


To do but what my dame iias done. 


better — 


For the sake of somebody. 


It's ower gude for an auld man. 


For the sake of somebody, 




I could wake a winter nicht, 


Now the auld man's deid. and, without remeid, 


Fur the sake of somebody. 


Into his cauld grave he's gane : 




Lie still wi' my blessing ! of thee I hae nae 
missing ; 






I'L ne'er mourn for an auld man. 






SANDY O'ER THE LEE. 


Within a little mair than three quarters of a year, 


Tune—" Sandy o'er the lee." 


She was married to a young man then. 




Who drank at the wine, and tippled at the beer. 


I WriNNA marrv ony man but Sandy ower the 


And spent more gear than he wan. 


lee. 




I tvinna marry ony man but Sandy ower the lee ; 


O black grew her brows, and howe ^rew her 


I winna hae the dominie, for gude he canna be; 


een, 


But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy ower 


And cauld grew her pat and her pan : 


the lee : 


And now she sighs, and aye she says, 


For Ac's aye a-kissin^, kissing, aye a-kias 


T wish I had my silly auld man !* 


ing me ; 




He's aye a-kissing, kissing, aye a-kissing me. 
I winna hae the minister, for all his godly looks • 




FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY 


Nor yet will I the lawyer hae, for a' his wily 




crooks ; 


OLD VERSES. 


I winna hae the ploughman lad, nor yet will I 


Tune—" Somebody." 


the miller. 
But I will hae my Sandy lad, without a penny 


For the sake of somthndt/, 


siller. 


For the soke of somebody, 


For he's aye a-kissing, 8fc. 


I could wake a winter nicht, 




1 For the sake of somebody. 


I winna hae the soldier lad, for he gangs to the 


I AM gaun to seek a wife. 


wars ; 
I winna hae the sailor lad, because he smeUa •* 


I am gaun to buy a plaidy ; 


tar; 


I have thiee stane o' woo' ; 


1 wiona hae the lord, or laird, for a' their meikle 


Carline, is thy d lughter ready ? 


gear. 
But I will hae my Sandy lad, mv Sandy o'el 


For the take of somebody, §*c. 




the muir. 




• From Ritson's " Scottish Song";," 179.3, into 


For he's aye a-kissing. Sec. 


which the e<liU)r mentions that it was copied from 




lome common collcciion, whose title he did not re- 




member. It haii often been the Usk of the Scottish 
muse to point out the evils of Ill-assorted alliances; 






but she has scarcely ever done so with so much hu- 




mour, and, at the same time, so much force of moral 


MY LOVE, SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET 


painting, as in the present ca>e. No tune is a.ssigned 




to the song in RiLson's Collection; but the (iresent 
edif»r has ventured to siitfgest the fine air, " Saw ye 


Tune—" My Love is but a lassie yet." 


my father," rather as being suitable to the (leculiar 
rhythm of the veraes -han to the luirit of the cornpo- 


My love, she's but a lassie yet; 


■tinn. 


My love, she's but a lassie yet 


J 



166 



BURNS* WORKS. 



fU let her stand a year or twa ; 
She^U no be half sae saucy yet. 

I RUE tlie day I sought her, O ; 
I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
Wha gets her, needna say he's woo'd, 
But he may say he's bought her, O. 
My love, she*s, 8fc, 

Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
Come draw a, drap o' the best o't yet ; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will — 
But here I never miss'd it yet. 
My love, she's, 8fc. 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 
And couldna preach for thinking o't. 
My love, she's, 8fc. 



MY WIFE HAS TA'EN THE GEE. 
My WJfe has ta'en the Gee." 



A FRIEND o* mine cam here yestreen. 

And he wad hae me down 
To drink a bottle o' ale wi' him 

In the neist burrows town : 
But oh, indeed, it was, Sir, 

Sae far the waur for me ; 
For, lang or e'er that I cam hame. 

My wife had tane the gee. 

We sat sae late, and drank sae stout, 

The truth I tell to you, 
That, lang or e'er the midnicht cam, 

We a' were roarin' fou. 
My wife sits at the fireside, 

And thfc tear blinds aye her ee; 
The ne'er a bed wad she gang to. 

But sit and tak' the gee. 

In the mornin' sune, when I cam doun. 

The ne'er a word she spake ; 
But mony a sad and sour look, 

And aye her head she'd shake. 
My dear, quoth I, what aileth thee, 

To look sae sour on me ? 
I'll never do the like again, 

If you'll ne'er tak' the gee. 

When that she heard, she ran, she flang 

Her arms about my neck ; 
And twenty kisses, in a crack ; 

And, poor wee thing, she grat. 
If you'll ne'er do the like again, 

But bide at hame wi' me, 
I'll lay my life, I'll be the wife 

That never taks the gee.* 



• From Herl's collection, 1776. 



THE BONNIE LASS O' BRANKSOME 

ALLAN RAMSAY. 

Tutu — " The Bonnie Lass o' Branksome."' 

As I came in by Teviot side, 

And by the braes of Branksome, 
There first I saw my bonny bride. 

Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome 
Her skin was safter than the down, 

And white as alabaster ; 
Her hair, a shining, waving brown ; 

In straightness nane surpass'd her. 

Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek, 

Her clear een were surprising, 
And beautifully turn'd her neck, 

Her little breasts just rising : 
Nae silken hose with gushats fine. 

Or shoon with glancing laces. 
On her bare leg, forbade to shine 

Weel-shapen native graces. 

Ae little coat and bodice white 

Was sum o' a' her daithing ; 
E'en these o'er muckle; — mair deljrte 

She'd given clad wi' naething. 
We lean'd upon a flowery brae. 

By which a burnie trotted ; 
On her I glowr'd my soul away. 

While on her sweets I doated. 

A thousand beauties of desert 

Before had scarce alarm'd me, 
Till this dear artless struck my heart* 

And, hot designing, charm'd me. 
Hurried by love, close to my breast 

1 clasp'd this fund of blisses, — 
Wha smiled, and said, Without a pri^ist^ 

Sir, hope for nocht but kisses. 

I had nae heart to do her harm, 

And yet I couldna want her ; 
What she demanded, ilka charm 

O' hers pled I should grant her. 
Since heaven had dealt to me a routh, 

Straight to the kirk I led her ; 
There plighted her my faith and trouth, 

And a young lady made her.* 



MY WIFE'S A WANTON WEE THUsa 
Tune — " My wife's a wanton wee thing." 
My wife's a wanton wee th«g. 
My wife's a wanton wee thing, 



♦ This song, which appeared in the Tea- Table 
Miscellany, (1724), was founded upon a real incident. 
The honnie lass was daufjhter to a wdinan who kept 
an alehouse at the hamlet n ar BraMkii<)me Castle, in 
Teviotdale. A young officer, of some rankj — his name 
we believe was Maitfami, — hai)pened to be be quarter- 
ed somewhere in the neighbourhood, saw, loved, and 
married her. So strange was such an alliance deemed 
m those days, that the old mother, under whose aus- 
piceS it was performed, did not escape the imputatioB 
of witchcraft 



SONGS. 



J 67 



My wife's a wanfron wee thing ; 
She winna be guided by me. 

She play'd the loon ere she was married, 
She play'd the loon ere she was married, 
She play'd the loon ere she was married j 
She'll do't again ere she die ! 

She seird her coat, and she drank i 
She sell'd her coat, and she drank it 
She row'd hersell ih a blanket ; 
She winna be guided by me. 

She mind't na when I forbade her, 
She mind't na when I forbade her ; 
I took a rung and I claw'd her, 
And a braw gude bairn was she ! * 



WE'RE A' NODDIN. 

Tune—" Nid noddin.' 

O, U}e*re. a* nnddin, nid, nid, noddin, 
0, were a' noddin, at our house at hame. 

How*s a' wi' ye, kimmer? and how do ye 

thrive ? 
And how mony bairns hae ye njw ? — Bairns I 

hae five. 



And are they a' at hame wi' y( 



-Na, na, na ; 



For twa o* them's been herdin' sin' Jamie gaed 
awa. 
And we're a' noddin, nid, nid, noddin ; 
And we're a' noddin, at our house at hame. 

Grannie nods i' the neuk, and fends as she may, 
And brags that we'll ne'er be what she's been 

in her day. 
Vow ! but she was bonnie ; and vow ! but she 

Wiis braw, 
And she had rowth o' wooers ance, I'se warrant, 

great: and sma.' 

And we're a' noddin, §-c. 

Weary fa' Kate, that she winna nod too ; 
She sits i* the corner, suppin' a' the broo ; 
And when the bit bairnits wad e'en hae their 

share, 
She gies them the ladle, but deil a drap's there. 
And we're a noddin, 8fc, 

Now, fareweel, kimmer, and weel may ye thrive ; 
They sae the French is rinnin* for't, and we'll 

hae peace belyve. 
The bear's 'i the biear, and th» hay's i'the stack, 
And a' *11 be right wi' us, gin Jamie were come 

back. 

And we're a noddin', §t. 



* From Johnson's Scots Musical Museum, vol. III. 
1790. The t\»o first stanzas, however, appear m 
-herd's collection, 1776. 



MY NATIVE CALEDONIA. 

Sair, sair was my heart, when I parted frae my 

Jean, 
And sair, sair I sigh'd, while the tears stood in 

my een ; 
For my daddie is but poor, and my fortune it 

but sma' ; 
Which gars nie leave my native Calconia. 

When I think on days now gane, and how hap- 
py I hae been. 

While wandering wi' my dearie, where the prim* 
rose blaws unseen ; 

I'm wae to leave my lassie, and my daadie's sim- 
ple ha'. 

Or the hills and healthfu' breeze o' Caledonia. 

But wherever I wander, still happy be my Jear^ ! 
Nae care disturb her bosom, where peace has 

ever been ! 
Then, though ills on ills befa' me, for her I'll 

bear them a', 
Though aft I'll heave a sigh for Caledonia. 

But should riches e'er be mine, and my Jeaniti 

still be true. 
Then blaw, ye favourin' breezes, till my nativ«» 

land I view ; 
Then I'll kneel on Scotia's shore, while thi 

heart-felt tear shall fa*. 
And never leave my Jean and Caledonia. 



O, AN YE WERE DEID, GUIDMAN 

Tune—" O, an ye war deid, Guidman.* 

O, AN ye were deid, guidman. 
And a green truff on your heid, guidman. 
That I might ware my widowheid 
Upon a rantin Highlandman. 

There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman, 
There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman j 
There's ane to you, and twa to me. 
And three to our John Highiandmaiu 

There's beef into the pot, guidman. 
There's beef into the pot, guidman ; 
The banes for you, and the l)roe for me. 
And the beef for our John Highlandman. 

There's sax horse in the sta', guidman. 
There's sax horse in the sta', guidman; 
There's aoe to you, and twa to me. 
And three to our John Highlandmau. 

There's sax kye in the byre, guidman. 
There's sax kye in the byre, guidman ; 
There's nane o' them yours, but there's tv\ i 

them mine. 
And the lave is our John Highland man's. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



OH, WHAT A PARISH! 

ADAM CRAWFORD. 

Tune—'* Bonnie Dundee." 

O, what a parish, what a terrible parish, 
O, what a parish is that of Dunkell ' 
Thei/ hae haayv. the minister, drouned the 
precentor, 
Dvna down tr.e steeple, and drucken the 
belli 

Though the steeple was docj, the kirk was still 
stanniu ; 
They biggit a lum where the bell used to hang ; 
A steil-pat tliey gat, and they brewed Hieland 
whisky ; 
On Sundays they drank it, and rantit and sang! 
O, what a parish, §*c. 

Oh, had yrm but seen how gracefu' it luikit. 
To see the ■•rammed pews sae socially join ! 

Macdonald, the piper, stuck up i' the poupit, 
He made the pipes skirl sweet music divine ! 
O, what a parish, &^c. 

When the heart-cheerin spirit had niountit the 
garret, 
To a ball on the green they a' did adjourn ; 
Maids, wi' their coats kiltit, they skippit and 
hitit ; 
When tired, they shook hands, and a hame 
did return. 

O, what a parish, Sfc. 

Wad the kirks in our Britain hand sic social 
meetings, 
Nae warning they'd need frae a far-tinkling 
bt'll ; 
For true love and friendship wad ca' them the- 
gither, 
Far better than roaring o' horrors o' hell. • 
O, what parish, IjfC. 



OLD KING COUL. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 

And a jolly old soul was he ; 
And old King Coul he had a brown bowl, 

And thef brought him in fiddlers three ; 
And every fiddler was a very good fiddler, 

And a very good fiddler was he : 
Widdle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, 

Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
And a jolly old soul was he ; 

• Crawford, the inditer of tliis curjous fro ic, was a 
tailor in Edinburgh, and the author of sora* Mher good 
longs. 



Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, 
And they brou5);ht him in pipeis three ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-didd'k, 

went the pipers three ; 
Fiddle-did<ile, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a the land, 
Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 

And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, 
And they brought him in harpers three : 
Twingle-twa-ngle, twingle-tw angle, went the 

harpers ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 

went the pipers ; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddler« 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' the land, 
Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, 

And they brought him in trumpeters three : 
Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpet- 
ers ; 
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 

harpers ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 

went the pipers ; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's uo a lass in a* Scotland, 
Compared to sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 

And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl. 
And they brought him in drummers three 
Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub, went the drummers ; 
Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpet- 
ers; 
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 

harpers ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddla, how-diddle, 

went the pipers; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlera 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a* the land. 
Compared to sweet Marjorie. 



PC VERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIR 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 



Tune — " Todlin hame. 



"When white was my o'erlay as foam o' the linn; 
And siller was clinkin* my pouches withia * 



30NGS. 



When my lambkins were bleating on meadow 

and brae ; 
As I gaed to my love in new deeding sae gay, 

Kind was she, 

And my friends were free ; 

But poverty parts gude companie. 

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of de- 
light ! 
The piper play'd cheerly, the crusie buru'd 

bright ; 
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear. 
As she footed the floor in her holiday gear. 
Woe is me, 
And can it then be, 
That poverty parts sic companie ! 

We met at the fair, we met at the kirk, 

We met in the sunshine, and met in the mirk ; 

And the sounds of her voice, and the blinks of 

her een. 
The cheering and life of my bo^om have been. 

Leaves frae the tree 

At Martinmas flee ; 

And poverty paits sweet companie. 

At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' pride ; 
The bruse I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride ; 
And loud was the laughter gay fellows among, 
When I utter'd my banter and chorus'd my song. 

Dowie to dree 

Are jesting and glee, 

When poverty parts gude companie. 

Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet, 

And mithers and aunties were mair than dis- 
creet, 

While kebbuck and bicker were set on the 
board ; 

But now they pass by me, and never a word. 
So let it be, 

For the worldly and slie 
Wi' poverty keep nae companie. 



WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG. 

WILLIAM WALKINGSHAW OF WALKINGSHAW. 



7V»«- 



Willie was a wanton Wag.' 



WiLLiK was a wanton wag. 

The blythej-r lad rhut e'ei- I saw : 
At bridals still he bore the brag, 

And carried aye the ^ree awa. 
His doublet was of Shetland shag, 

And wow but Willie he was braw ; 
And at his shouthers hung a tag 

That pleased the lasses best of a'. 

He wa» a man without a clag; 

His heart was frank, without a flaw ; 
And ay»r whatever Wdli/- said, 

It itilt wa^s hadaen as a law. 



His boots they were made of the jag, 

When he went to the weapou-shaw ; 
Upon the green uane durst him brag. 

The fient a ane amang them a'. 

* 

And was not Willie weel worth gowd ? 

He wan the love o' grit and sraa* ; 
For, after he the bride had kiss'd, 

He kiss'd the lasses haill-sale a'. 
Sae merrily round the ring they row'd. 

When by the hand he led them a' ; 
And smack on smack on them bestow 'd, 

By virtue of a standing law. 

And was na Willie a great loun, 

As shyre a lick as e'er was seen ? 
When he danced with the lasses round, 

The bridegroom spier'd where he had beta 
Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring ; 

Wi' bobbin', faith, my shanks are sair } 
Gae ca* the bride and maidens in, 

For Willie he dow do na mair. 

Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out. 

And for a wee fill up the ring ; 
But shame licht on his souple snout ' 

He wanted WiHie's wanttm fling. 
Then straight he to the bride did iare, 

Says, Weel's me on your bonny face ■ 
With bobbin' Willie's shanks are sair. 

And I am come to fill his place. 

Bridegroom, says she, you'll spoil the daooe. 

And at the ring you'll aye be lag. 
Unless like Willie ye advance ; 

Oh, Willie has a wanton leg ! 
For wi't he learns us a* to steer, 

And foremost aye bears up the ring ; 
We will find nae sic daucin' here, 

If we want Willie's wanton fling. • 



THE AULD MAN'S MEAR'S OEADl 

Tune—" The auld man's meal's dead " 

The auld man's inear^s dead ; 
The puir body^s mears dead ; 
The auld man's mear's deadf 
A mile abuon Dundee. 

There was hay to ca', and lint to lead, 
A hunder hotts o' muck to spread, 
And peats and truffs and a' to lead— 
And yet the jaud to dee ! 

The auld man's, 8fc. 

She had the fiercie and the fleuk. 
The wheezloch and the wanton yeuk 
On ilka knee she had a breuk — 
What ail'd the beast to de« " 
The auld man's, &^. 



• From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 175f4. \% it ia 
there signed by the initials of the author, there ariws 
a presumption that he was ali\e, a d a fiiend of Ram 
•ay, at the [jeriod of the publicauou ol that woiA. 



170 



BURNS' WORKS. 



She was lang-toothM and blench-iippit, 
Heam-hough'd and ha;^gis-!ittit, 
Lang-neckit, chandler-chiftit, 
And yet the jaud to dee ! • 

The auld man s, Sj-c. 



ROY'S WIFE OF ALDTVALLOCH. 

MRS. GRANT OF CARRON. 

Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." 

Roy's wife of AldivaUochy 

Roy^s wife of Aldivalloch, 

Wat ye how she cheated me, 

As I came o'er the braes of JBalloch ? 

She vow'd, she swore, she wad be mine ; 

She said she lo'ed me best of onie ; 
But, ah ! the fickle, fa'^hless quean, 

She's ta'en the carle, and left her Johnie. 
Roy^s wife, Sfc. 

Oh, she was a canty quean. 

And weel could dance the Hieland walloch ! 
How happy I, had she been uiiue, 

Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch ! 
Roy's wife, §-c. 

Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear, 

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bounie ! 

To me she ever will be dear, 

Though she's for ever left her Johnie. 
Roy's wife, ^c. 



STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER 
GAUN. 

Tune — ♦' Steer her up and baud her gaun." 

O STEER her up and baud her gaun ; 
Her mother's at the mill, jo : 



But gin she winna tak a rimBj 
E'en let her lak her wili, jo. 

Pray thee, lad, leave billy thinking ; 
Cast thy cares of love away ; 

Let's our sorrows drown in drinking ; 
*Tis daifin langer to delay. 

See that shining glass of claret, 

How invitingly it looks ! 
Take it aff, and let's have mair o't ; 

Pox on fighting, trade, and books ! 
Let's have pleasure, while we're able; 

Bring us in the meikle bowl ; 
Place't on the middle of the table ; 

And let wind and weather gowl. 

Call the drawer ; let him fill it 

Fou as ever it can hold : 
Oh, tak tent ye dinna spill it ; 

'Tis mair precious far than gold. 
By you've drunk a dozen bumpers, 

Bacchus will begin to prove, 
Spite of Venus and her mumpers, 

Drinking better is than love. 



• The late Rev. Mr. Clunie, minister of the parish 
of Borthwick, near Edinburgh, (who was so enthusias- 
tically fond of singing Scottish songs, that he used to 
hang his watch round the candle on Sunday evenings, 
and wait anxiously till the conjunction of the hands at 
12 o'clock permitted him to break out in one of his 
fevourite ditties), was noted for the admirable m-inner 
in which he sung " Bonny Dundee," " Waly, waly, 
up yon bank," " The Auld Man's Mear's dead," with 
many other old Scottish ditties. One day, happening 
to meet with some friends at a tavein in Dalkeith, he 
was solicited to favour the company with the latter 
humorous ditty: which he was accordingly singing 
with his usual effect and brilliancy, when the woman 
who kept the house thrust her head in at the door, and 
added, at the conclusion of one of the choruses, •* Od, 
the auld man's meat's dead, sureene\uh. V'our horse, 
minister, has hanged itsell at my door" Such was 
really the fact. The minister, on going into the house, 
had tied his horse by a rope to a hooli, or ring, near 
the door, and as he was induced to stay much longer 
than he intended, the poor mimal, either through ex- 
haustion, or a sudden fit of disease, fell down, and was 
rtrangled. He was so much mortified by this unhappy 
accident, the comcidence of which with the subject of 
his song was not a little striking, that, all his life after, 
oe could never be persuaded to sing *« The Auld Man's 
Mear's dead" again 



SYMON BRODIE. 

Tune — " Symon Brodie." 

Symon Brodie had a cow, 

The cow was lost, and he could na find hep 
When he had done what man could do, 

The cow cam hame, and her tail behind htt 
Honest auld Symnn Brodie, 
Stupid auld doitit hodie ! 

Til awa to the North countries 
And see my ain dear Symon Brodie. 

Symon Brodie had a wife. 

And, wow ! but she was braw and bonnia ; 
She took the dish-clout atf the buik, 

And preen'd it to her cockernonie. 
Honest auld Symon Brodie, §*c. 



NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO 
WHISKY. 

Tune — '' Farwell to Whisky.* 

You've surely heard o' fanmus Neil, 
The man that played the fiddle weel ; 
I wat he was a canty chiel. 

And dearly loe'd the whisky, O. 
And, aye sin he wore the tartan trews, 
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose ; 
And wae was he, you may suppose, 

To play farewell to whisky, O. 

Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld, 
And find my blude grow unco cauld ; 
I think 'twad make me blythe and baulA. 
A wee drap Highland whiskv, O- 





SONGS. 17! 


Vet the doctors they do a' agree* 


We'll tak her hame and mak her fain. 


That waisky's no the drink for me. 


My ain kind-hearted lammie. 


Saul 1 quoth Neil, 'twill spoil my glee, 


We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise. 


Should they part me and whisky, 0. 


We'll be her comfort a' her days. 




The wee thing gies her hand, and says- 


Though I can baith get wine and ale, 


There ! gang and ask my mammy. 


And find my head and fingers hale, 




I'll be content, though legs should fail, 


Has she been to the kirk wi' thee. 


To play farewell to whisky, 


My boy Tammy ? 


But still I think on aiJd lang syne, 


She has been to the kirk wi lae. 


When Paradise oui friends did tyue, 


And the tear was in her ee : 


Because something ran in their mind, 


For O ! she's but a young thing, 


Forbid like Highland whisky, 0. 


Just come frae her mammy. 


G^me, a' ye powers o' music, come ; 
I find my heart grows unco glum ; 






My fiddle-strings will no play bum, 




To say, Fareweel to whisky, 0. 


THE WEE WIFIKIE. 


Yet I'll take my fiddle in my hand. 




And screw ihe pegs up while they'll stand, 


DR. A, GEDDES. 


To make a lamentation grand, 




On gude auld Highland whisky, 0. 


Tune-'^' The wee bit Wifikie." 




There was a wee bit wifikie was comin fraa 




the fair, 
Had got a wee bit drappikie, that bred her 






muckle care ; 


THE LAMMIE. 


It gaed about the wifie's heart, and she began 




to spew . 


HECTOR MACNEILL. 


! quo' the wifikie, 1 wish I binna fou. 


Tune—" Whar hae ye been a' day.- 


I wish I binna fou, I wish I binna fou. 




! quo' the wifikie, I wish I binna fou. 


Whar hae ye been a' day. 




My boy Tammy ? 


If Johnnie find me barley-sick, I'm sure he'll 


I've been by burn and flow'ry nrae, 


claw my skin ; 


Meadow green aud mountain grey, 


But I'll lie doun and tak a nap before that I 


'>)urting o' this young thing. 


^ gae in. 


Just come frae her uiiiininy. 


Sittin' at the dyke-side, and takin' o' her nap. 




By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack. 


Aud whar gat ye that young thing 


Wi' a little pack, quo she, wi' a little pack, 


My boy Tammy ? 


By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack 


I got her down in yonder howe, 




Smiling on a l)onnie knowe, 


He's clippit a' her gowden locks, sae bonnie and 


Herding ae wee lamb and ewe, 


sae lang ; 


For her poor mamnay. 


He's ta'en her purse and a' her placks, and fast 




awa he ran : 


Whsit said ye to the bonnie bairu. 


And when the wifie wakened, her head was 


My boy Tammy ? 


like a bee. 


I praised her een, sae lovely blue. 


Oh ! quo' the wifikie, this is nae me. 


Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou ;— 


This is nae me, quo' she, this is nae me ; 


I pree'd it aft, as ye may trow ! — 


Somebody has been fellin' me, and this is nae 


She said she'd tell her mammy 


me. 


I hey her to my beating heart, 


I met wi' kindly company, and birl'd my baw- 


My young, my smiling laramie i 


bee ! 


I hae a house, it cost me dear, 


And still, if this be Bessikie, three placks re. 


I've wealth o' pleni>hen and gear ; 


main wi' me : 


Ye'ae get it a", were't ten times mair. 


And I will look the pursie neuks, see gin the 


Gin ye will leave your mammy. 


cunyie be ; — 




There's neither purse nor plack about mo . 


The smile gaed aff her bonnie face — 


This is nae me. 


I maunna leave my mammy. 


This is nae me, &c. 


She's gien me meat, she's gien me claise. 




She's been my comfort a' my days : — 


I have a little housikie, but and \ kindly man ; 


My father's death brought monie waes— . 


A dog, they ca' him Doussikie ; if this be me, 


I canni leave my mammy. 


he'U fawG • 


1 



172 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And Jotnnie he'll come to the door, and kindly 

welcome gie, 
And a* the bairns on the floor-head will dance, 

if this b« me. 
Will dance, if this be me Sec. 

The nicht was late, and dang out weet and, 

oh, but it was dark ; 
The doggie heard a body's fit, and he began to 

bark : 
O, when she heard the doggie bark, and ken- 

nin' it was he, 
O, weel ken ye, Doussiekie, quo she, this is nae 

me 
This is nae me. See. 

When Johnnie heard his Bessie's word, fast to 

the door he ran : 
Is that you, Bessikie ? — Wow, na, m'ln ! 
Be kind to the bairns a', and weil mat ye be ; 
And fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me. 
This is nae me, &c. 

John ran to the minister ; his hair stood a' on 

end : 
I've gotten sic a fright, Sir, I fear I'll never 

mend ; 
My wife's come hame without a head, crying 

out most piteouslie : 
Oh, fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me ! 
This is nae me, &c. 

The tale you tell, the parson said, is wonderful 

to me, 
How that a wife without a head should speak, 

or hear, or see ! 
But things that happen hereabout so strangely 

alter'd be. 
That I couiJ. maist wi* Bessie say, 'Tis neither 

you nor sr.e ! * 
Neither you nor she, quo' he, neither you 

nor she ; 
Wow, na, Johnnie man, 'tis neither you nor 

she. 

Now Johnnie he cam hame again, and wow, 

but he was fain. 
To see his little Bessikie come to hersell again. 
He got her sittin' on a stool, wi' Tibbock on 

aer knee : 
O come awd, Johnnie, quo' she, come awa to 

mt 
For I've got a drap wi* Tibbikie, and this is 

now me. 
This is now me, quo' she, this is now me ; 
I've got a drap wi' Tibbikie, and this is now 



• A Jacobite allusion, probably to the change of the 
Stuart for J he Brunswick dynasty, in 1714. 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE 



ScKNES of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet and gloamin.* 
Fare thee weel before I g&ng ! 

Bonny Doon, whare, early roaming, 
First I weav'd the rustic sang ! 

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying, 
First inthrall'd this heart o' mine, 

There the saftest sweets enjoying,— 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne ! 

Friends, so near my bosom ever, 
Ye hae rendered moment's dear j 

But, alas ! when forc'd to sever. 
Then the stroke, O, how severe ! 

Friends ! that parting tea*" reserve it, 
Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me ! 

Could I think I did deserve it, 
How much happier would I be ! 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renewr. 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 



TIBBIE FOWLER. < 



Tune—" Tibbie Fowler." 



Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, 

There's ower mony wooing at her ; 
Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, 

There's ower mony wooing at her. 
WooirC at her, pu'in' at her, 

Courtin her, and canna get her ; 
Filthy elf, if s for her pelf 

That a' the lads are wooing at her. 

Ten cam east, and ten cam west ; 
Ten cam rowin' ower the water ; 



» Saia CO iiave be<»n written by the Rev. Dr. 
Straehan, late minister of CarnwHth, although cet- 
tainly grodnded upon a song of older standing, the 
name of which is mentioned in the Tea-Table Miscel 
lany. The two first verses of the song appeared in 
Herd's Collection. 1776. 

There is a tradition at Leith that Tibbie Fowler was 
a real person, and married, ■^ome time uuring the se- 
venteenth censury, to the representative of tho attaint, 
eil fnmily of Logan of Restalrig, whose town-house, 
dated 1656, is still pointed out at the head ol a street 
in Leith, called the Sheritt'-brae. The marriage-con 
tract between Logan and Isabella FowUr is still extant. 
in the possession of a gentleman resident at Leith a—* 
See Campbell's History qf Leith, note, p. 314. 



f 

SONGS. 17S 


Twa cam dovrn tlie lang dyke-side : 


THE BRISK YOUNG LAD. 


There's twa-and-thirty wooin* at her. 
Wooin* at her, Sfc. 


Tune- •' Bung your eye in the morning.** 




There cam a young man to my daddie's door 


There's, seven but, and seven ben, 


My daddie's door, my daddie's door ; 


Seven in the pantry wi' her ; 


There cam a young man to my daddie's door, 


Twenty head about the door : 


Cam seeking me to woo. 


There's &ne-and-forty wooin' at her. 


jiiid wow ! hut he was a hraw young lad^ 


Wooin' at hir, ifc. 


A brisk young lad, and a braw young lad • 




And lonw ! but he was a braw young ladf 


She's jTot pendlerf in her lugs ; 


Cam seeking me to woo. 


Cockle-shells wad set her better ! 




Higli-heel'd shoon, and siller tags ; 


Btit I was baking when he came, 


And a' the lads are wooin' at her. 


When he came, when he came ; 


Wooin' at her, ifc. 


I took him in aad gied him a scone. 




To thowe his rozen mou. 


Be a lassie e'er sae black, 


And wow ! but he was, 8fC, 


Gin she hae the penny sdler. 




Set her up on Tintock tap, 


1 set him in aside the bink ; 


The wind will blaw a man JU her. 


I gae him bread and ale to drink ; 


Wooin' at her, 8fc. 


Ano ne'er a blyche styme wad he blink, 




Until his wame was fou. 


Be a lassie e'er sae fair. 


And wow I but he was, SfC. 


An she want the penny siller, 




A. flie may fell her in the air, 


Gae, get you gone, you cauldrife wooer, 


Before a man be even'd till her. 


Ye (jour-looking, cauldrife wooer ! 


Wooin' at her. Sec 


I jttdightway show'd him to the door, 
Saying, Come nae mair to woo. 






And wnw ! but he was, SfC 
There lay a deuk-dub before the door, 




ANNIE LAURIE. • 


Before the door, before the door ; 




There lar a deuk-ilui) before the dooi, 


Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 


And th^re fell lie, I trow ! 


Where early fa's the dew ; 


And wow ! hut he was, 8fc. 


Where me and Annie Laurie 




Made up the promise true ; 


Out cam the guidman, and high he shouted; 


Made up the promise true. 


Out cam the guidwife, and laigh she louted ; 


And never forget will I ; 


And a' the toun-neebors were gather d about it 


And for bonnie Annie Laurie 


And there lay he, I trow ! 


r 11 lay me doun and die. 


And wow ! but he was, 8fc. 


She's backit like the peacock ; 


Then out cam I, and sneer'd and smiled ; 


She's breistit like the swan ; 


Ye cam to woo, but ye're a' beguiled ; 


She's jimp about the middle ; 


Ye've fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a' befvled ; 


Her waist ye weel raicht span : 


We'll hae nae mair o' you ! 


Her waist ye well micht span, 


And wow ! but he was, 8^c. 


And she has a rolling eye ; 




And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'll lay me doun and die. 








KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. 




• These two yerses, which are in n style wonderful- 




ly tender and chaste for their age, were written by a 


Tune—" Robin lo'e* me." 


Mr. Douglas of Fingland, upon Anne, one of the four 




daughters of Sir Robert Laurie, first Baronet of Max- 


Robin is my only jo, 


welton, by his second wife, who was a daughter of 
Riddell of Minto. As Sir Robert was created a ba- 


For Rubin has the art to lo'e ; 


Sae to his suit I mean to bow, 


ronet in the year 168.5, it is probable that the verses 


were composed about the end of the seventeenth or the 


Because I ken he lo'es me. 


beginning of the eighteenth century. It is painful to 
recfjrd. that, notwithstanding the ardent and chival- 


Happy, happy was the shower, 


rous affection displayed by Mr. Douglas in his poem, 


That led me to his birben bower, 


ne did not obtain the heroine for a wife: She was mar- 


Where first of love I fand the power, 
And kenn'd that Robin lo'ed me. 


ried to Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroch.— See " A BaJ- 
Utf Book," {orinted at Edinburgh In 1824), p. 107- 




They speak of napkins, speak of itaga. 




SjMiak of gluves and kisbin' strings j 


1 



1-/4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And name a thousaud lionnie tnings. 
And ca' them signs he lo*es me. 

But I'd prefer a smack o' Rob, 

Seated ou the velvet fog, 

To gifts as lang's a plaidon wab ; 
Because I ken he lo'es me. 

He's tall and sonsie, frank and free, 
Lo'ed by a', and dear to me ; 
Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd dee, 

Because my Robin lo'es me. 
My tittie Mary said to me, 
Our courtship but a joke wad be, 
And I or lang be made to see 

That Robin didna lo'e me. 

But little kens she what has been, 
Me and my honest Rob between ; 
And in his wooing, O sae keen 

Kind Robin is that lo'es me. 
Then fly, ye lazy hours, away, 
And hasten on the happy day, 
When, Join your hands. Mess John will say, 

And mak him mine that lo'es me. 

Till then, let every chance unite 
To fix our love and give delight, 
And I'll look down on such wi' spi"*'. 
Wha doubt that Robin lo'es me. 
O ney, Robin ! quo' she, 
O hey, R(»bin ! quo' she, 
O hey, Robin ! quo' she ; 
Kmd Robin lo'es me. 



THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE 
TO DEAVE US. 

ROBERT GILFILLAN. 

Tune—" Fy, let us a* to the bridal." 

The poets, what fools they're to deave as, 

How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine ; 
The tane is an angel — and, save us ! 

The neist ane you meet wi's divine. 
And then there's a lang-nebbit sonnet, 

Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean ; 
And the moon, or some far-£83,va planet's 

Compared to the blink o' her een. 

The earth an' the sea they've ransackit 

For sim'lies to set off their charms ; 
And no a wee flov/'r but s attackit 

By poets, like bum bees, in swarms. 
Now, what signifies a' this clatter, 

By chiels that the truth winna tell ? 
Wad it no be settlir.' ie matter, 

To say. Lass, ye're just like your sell ? 

An then there's nae end to the evil, 
For they are no deaf to the din— 

Tnat I'ke me ony puir luckless deevil 
Daur scarce look cae ifate they are in I 



But e'en let tht m be, Wi their scornin* : 
There's a lassie whase name I could teljf, 

Her smile is as sweet as the raornin'— 
But whisht ! !' am ravin* mysell. 

But he that o' ravin's convickit, 

When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on, 
May he ne'er get anither strait jacket 

Than that buckled to by Mess John ! 
An' he wha — though cautious an' canny— 

The charms o' the fair never saw. 
Though wise as King Solomon's grannia. 

I swear is the daftest of a*. 



»TWAS WITHIN A MILE OF EDIN^ 
BURGH TOWN. 

Tttstf— " Within a mile of Edinburffh." 

*TwAS within a mile of Edinburgh town, 

In the rosy time of the year ; 
Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass waa down, 
And each shepherd woo'd his dear. 

Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay, 

Kiss'd sweet Jenny, making hay, 
The lassie blush'd, and frowning, cried, *' No, 

no, it will not do ; 
I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc 

kle too." 

Jockey was a wag that never would wed, 
Though long he had followed the lass j 
Contented she earned and eat her own bread, 
And merrily turn'd up the grass. 

Bonny Jockey, blythe and free, 

Won her heart right merrily : 
Yet still she blush'd, and frowning, cried, " No 

no, it will not do ; 
I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, marmot buo 

kle too." 

But when he vow'd he would make her hi« 

bride. 
Though his flocks and herds were not few, 
She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside, 
And vow'd she'd for ever be true. 

Bonny Jockey, blythe and free, 

Won her heart right merrily . 
At church she no more fr.owning, cried, " Noj 

no, it will not do ; 
I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, maonot bii» 

kle too." 



MY LUVE'S IN GERMANIE. 

Tune—" My luve's in Gerroanie, 

My luve's in Germanie ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
My luve's in Germacie ; 

Send him hame. 



SONGS. 



17^ 



My Tiive's in Oirrr.MiU!, 
Fighting brave for royalty ; 
He may ne'er his Jeanie see ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
He may ne'er his Jeanie see ; 

Send him hame. 

He's as hrave as brave can be ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
Our faes are ten to three ; 

Send him hame. 
Our faes are ten to three ; 
He maun either fa' or flee, 
In the cause of loyalty ; 

Send him hame, send hiitt hame ; 
In thf Pause of loyalty ; 

Send him hame. 

Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 

Bonnie dame, winsome dame ; 
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 

Winsome dame. 
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 
But he fell in Germanic, 
Fighting hrave for loyalty, 

Mournfu' dame, mournfu* dame ; 
Fighting hrave for loyalty, 

Mournfu' dame. 

He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; 

Willie's slain, Willie's slain ; 
He'll ne'er come owor the sea; 

Willie's gane ! 
He will ne'er come ower the sea, 
To his luvp and ain countrie. 
This warld's nae mair for me ; 

Willie's gane, Willie's gane ; 
This warld's nae mai»- ^ me ; 

Willie's gane ! 



TO THE KYE WF ME. 

WAS na* she worthy o* kisses, 
Far mae than twa or three, 

And worthy o' bridal blisses, 
Wha gaed to the kye wi* me. 

O gang to the kye wi' me, my love, 

Gang to the kye wi* me, 
Ower the burn and through the broom; 
And I'll be merry wi' thee. 

1 hae a house a biggin, 

Anither that's like to fa*, 
And I love a scomfu* lassie, 
Wha grieves me warst of a*. 

O gang to the kye wi' me, my love, 

O gang to the kye wi' me. 
Ye'll tLInk nae mair o' your mither 
Amang the broom wi' me. 

I hae a house a biggin, 
Anither that's like t» fa', 



I hae noo the lass'e wi* bairn, 
Which vexes me warst of a*. 

gang to the kye wi' me, ray low. 
Gang to the kye wi' me, 

1 hae an.duld mither at hame, 

Will doodle it on hei knee. 



THE MILLER O' DEE. 
Tune—" The Miller of Dee." 

There was a jolly miller once 

Lived on the. river Dee ; 
He wrought and simg from morn till nigih% 

No lark more hlythe than he. 
And this the burden of his song 

For ever used to be ; 
I care for nobody, no, not I, 

If nobody caies for me. 
A.n<J this, §-c. 

When spring began its merry career, 

O, then his heart was gay ; 
He feared not summer's sultry heat, 

Nor winter's cold decay. 
No foresight marred the millei''8 cheer ' 

Who oft (lid sing and say, 
Let others live from year to year, 

I'll live from day to day. 
No foresiyht, 8j-c. 

Then, like this miller, bold and free, 

Let us be glad and sing ; 
The days of youth are made for glee. 

And life is on the wing. 
The song shall pass from me to you. 

Around this jovial ring. 
Let heart, and hand, and voice agree : 

And so, God save our king.* 
The song, 8fc. 



SAW YE MY FATHER? 

7'u:t(^— " Saw ye my father/" 

" O SAW ye my father, or saw ye my motner, 

Or saw ye my true love John ?" 
" I saw not your father, I saw not your mother 

But I saw your true love John." 

" It's now ten at night, and the stars gie nae 
light, 
And the bells they ring ding dong ; 
He's met with some delay, that causeth him tc 
stay ; 
But he will be here ere long." 

The surly auld carle did naething but snarle. 
And Jonnie's face it grew red ; 



♦ From an old MS. cony. The song seems to hart 
been first primed in Heid's CoUeciion, 1776. 



176 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Yet, th^ugli he often sighed, te re*er a word 
replied, 
Till all ^vere asleep in bed. 

'Jp Johnie rose, and to the door he goes, 

And gently tilled at the pin. 
The lassie, taking tent, unto the door she went, 

And she opened and let him in. 

•' And are ye come at last, and do I hold ye fast ? 

And is my Johnie true ?" 
«* I have nae time to tell, but sae lang's I like 
mysell, 

Sae lang sail I love you.'* 

'« Flee up, flee up, my bonnie grey cock, 

And craw whan it is day : ' 
Your neck shall be like the bonnie beaten gowd, 

Aad you wings of the silver grey." 

The cock proved fause, and untrue he was ; 

For he crew an hour ower sune. 
The lassie thought it day, when she sent her 
love away, 

4nd it was but a blink o' the mune 



TAM O' THE BALLOCH 



H. AINSLEY. 

Tune—" The Campbells are coming. 

In the Nick o' the Balloch lived Muirland Tam, 
Weel stentit wi* brochan and braxie-ham ; 
A breist like a buird, and a back like a door. 
And a wapping wame that hung down afore. 

But what's come ower ye, Muirland Tam ? 
For your leg's now grown like a wheel-barrow 

tram ; 
Your ee it's faun in — your nose it's faun out. 
And the skin o' your cheek's like a dirty clout. 

ance, like a yaud, ye spankit the bent, 
Wi' a fecket sae fou, and a stocking sae stent, 
The strength o' a stot — the wecht o' a cow ; 
Now, Tammy, my man, ye' re grown like a grew. 

1 mind sin' the blink o' a canty quean 

Could watered your mou and lichtit your een ; 
Now ye leuk like a yowe, when ye should be a 

ram ; 
O what can be wrang wi' ye, Muirland Tam ? 

Has some dowg o' the yirth set your gear abreed ? 
Hae they broken your heart or broken your head ? 
Hae they rackit wi' rungs or kittled wi' steel ? 
Oi , Tammy, my man, hae ye seen the deil ? 

Wha ance was your match at a stoup and a tale ? 
Wi' a voice like a sea, and a drouA like a whale? 



Now ye peep like a powt ; ye glumph and yt 

gaunt ; 
Oh, Tammy, my man, are ye turned i eaunt? 

Come, lowse your heart, ye man o' the muir ; 
We tell our distress ere we look for a cure : 
There's laws for a wrang, and sa's for a sair ; 
Sae, Tammy, my man, what wad ye hae mairl 

Oh ! neebour, it neither was thresher nor thie^ 
That deepened my ee, and lichtened my beef; 
But the word that makes me sae waefu' and wan 
Is — Tam o* the Balloch's a married man l 



HAUD AWA FRAE ME DONALD. 

Haud awa, bide avva ! 

Haud awa frae me, Donald : 
I've seen the man I well could love, 
But that was never thee, Donald. 
Wi' plumed bonnet waiving proud, 

And claymore by thy knee, Donald, 

And Lord o' Moray's mountains high, 

Thou'rt no a match for me, Donald. 

Haud awa, bide awa, 

Haud awa frae me, Donald, 
What sairs your mountains and your locbs, 
I canna swim nor flee Donald : 
But if ye'll come when yon fair sun 
Is sunk beneath the sea, Donald, 
I'll quit my kin, and kilt my cots. 
And take the hills wi' thee, Donald. 

One of the old verses runs thus :— 

Haud awa, bide awa, 

Haud awa irae me, Donald, 
Keep awa your cauld hand 

Frae my warm knee Donald. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 
-" Auld Rob Mona." 



MOTHER. 

Auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen, 

He s the king o' guid fallows, and wale o' auld 

men; 
He has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscore 

too; 
Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. 

DAUGHTER. 

Haud your tongue, mother, and let that abee ; 
For his eild and my eild can never agree : 
They'll never agree, and that will be seen ; 
For he is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen. 



SONGS. 



177 



MOTHER. 

flaurl your tonirue, duchter, and lay l>y your pride, 
For lie is the bridegroom, and ye'se be the bride ; 
Ht shall lie by your side, and kiss you too ; 
AuJd Rob Moi .is is the man ye maun lo'e. 

DAUGHTER. 

Auld Rob IMorris, I ken him fu' weel, 
His back sticks out like ony peat-creel ; 
He's out shinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too ; 
Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e. 



MOTHER. 

Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man, 
Yet his auld brass will buy you a new pan ; 
Then, doehter, ye should na be sa ill to shoe, 
For auld Rob INIorris is the man ye maun lo'e. 

DAUGHTER. 

But auld Rob Morris I never will hae, 
Ris back is so stiff, and his beard is grown grey 
I bad rather die than live wi' him a year ; 
Sae mair o' Rob Morris I never will hear. 



THE MALT-MAN. 

The malt-man comes on Munday, 

He craves wonder sair, 
Cries, Dame, come gi'e me my sillerj 

Or malt ye sail ne'er get mair. 
1 took hitn into the pantry, 

And gave him some good cock-broo, 
Syne paid him upon a gantree, 

\s hostlor-wives should dc. 

When malt-men come for siller, 

And gangers with wands o'er sooct. 
Wives, tak them a' down to the cellar. 

And clear them as I have done. 
This bewith, when cunzie is scanty, 

Will keep them frae making din ; 
The knack I learu'd frae an auld aunty. 

The snackest of a' ray kin. 

The malt-man is right cunning, 

But I can be as slee, 
And he may crack of his winning. 

When he clears scores with me ; 
For come when he likes, I'm ready; 

But if frae hame I be, 
Let him wait on our kind lady, 

She'll answer a bill for me. 



THE AULD WIFE BEYONT THE FIRE. 

Fheke was a wife won'd in a glen, 
And she had dochters nine or ten, 

That sought the house baith but and ben. 
To hnd their mam a 8ni>>hing. 



The avUd wife heyont the /tre^ 
The auld wife uniebt the JirCy 
The auld wife uhoon the fire. 
She died for lack if snishing,* 

Her mill into some hole had fawn, 
Whatrecks, quoth she, let it be gawa, 
For I maun hae a young goodman 

Shall furnish me with suishing. 
The auld wife, 8fc. 

Her eldest doehter said right bauld, 
Fy, mother, mind that now ye're auld. 

And if ye with a younker wald. 
He'll waste away your snishing. 
The auld ivife, Sj-c. 

The youngest doehter ga'e a shout, 
O mother dear ! your teeth's a' out. 
Besides ha'f blind, you have the gout. 

Your mill can had nae snishing. 
The auld wife, 8fc. 

Ye lied, ye limmers, cries auld mump, 
For I hae baith a tooth and stump. 
And will nae langer live in dump, 

By wanting of my snishing. 
The auld wife, Sfc, 

Thole ye, says Peg, that pawky slut, 
Mother, if ye can crack a nut, 
Then we will a' consent to it. 

That you shall have a snishing. 
The auld wife, Sfc. 

The auld ane did agree to that. 
And they a pistol-bullet gat; 
She powerfully began to crack, 

To win hersell a snishing. 
The auld wife, Sfc. 

Braw sport it was to see her chow'fc. 
And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and row*V 
While frae her jaws the slaver flow'd, 

And ay she curs'd poor stumpy. 
The auld wife, 8fc. 

At last she ga'e a desperate squeei, 
WTiich brak the lang tooth by the neee, 
And syne poor stumpy was at ease. 

But she tint hopes of snishing. 
The auld wife, Sfc. 

She of the task began to tire. 
And frae her dochters did retire, 
Syne lean'd her down ayont the fire, 

And <lied for lack of snishing. 
The auld wife, S^c. 

Ye auld wives, notice well this truth, 
Assoon as ye're past mark of mouth, 



• Snishmg, in its literal - meaning, is snulf made of 
tobacco ; but, in this song, it means sometimes com- 
tentment, a husband, love, money, dtc 



02 



1 


I /8 BURNS' 


WORKS. 


Ne'er do what's only fit for youth, 


And when sht drew the curtam by, 


And leave aff thoughts of snishing : 


Young man, I think you're dying 


Else, like this wife heijont the fire. 




Ye V hairns against you will conspire ; 


its Vm sick, and very very sick, 


Nor will ye get, unless ye hire. 


And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan. 


A young man with your snishing. 


O the better for me ye's never be, 




Tho' your heart's blood were a- spilling 
O dinna ye mind, young man, said she, 






When he was in the tavern a-drinking, 


BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 


That ye made the healths gae round and "ouaa 




And slighted Barbara Allan ? 


BESSY Bell and Mary Gray, 




They are tvva bonny lassies, 


He turn'd his face unto the wall. 


They bigg'd a bow'r on yon burn-brae, 


And death was with him dealing ; 


And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes. 


Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, 


Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen, 


And be kind to Barbara Allan. 


And thought I ne'er could alter. 




But Mary Gray's twa pawky een, 


And slowly, slowly raise she up, 


They gar my fancy falter. 


And slowly, slowly left him ; 




And sighing, said, she cou'd not stay, 


Now Bessy's hair's like a Itot tap , 


Since death of life had reft him. 


She smiles like a May morning, 




When Phcebus starts frae Thetis' lap, 


She had not gane a mile but twa, 


The hills with rays adorning : 


When she heard the dead-bell ringing, 


WTiite is her neck, saft is her hand, 


And every jow that the dead-bell gied 


Her waist arid feet's fu' genty ; 


It cry'd, Wo to Barbara Allan. 


'Vith ilka grace she can command ; 




Her lips, wow ! they're dainty. 


mother, mother, make my bed:, 


. 


make it saft and narrow. 


And Mary's locks are like a craw, 


Since my love dy'd for me to-day. 


Her een like diamonds glances ; 


ril die for him to-morrow. 


She's ay sae clean, redd up, and braw, 




She kills whene'er she dances : 
Blythe as a kid, with wit at will. 






She blooming, tight, and tall is ; 




And guides her airs sae gracefu' stiU. 


ETTRICK BANKS. 


O Jove, she's like thy Pallas. 




Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, 

Ye unco sair oppress us ; 
Our fancies jee between you twa, 

Ye are sic bonny lassies : 
Wae's me i for baith I canna get, 

To ane by law we're stented ; 
Then I'll draw cuts, and take my fate, 

And be with ane contented. 


On Ettrick banks, in a summer's night. 

At glowmiiig when the sheep drave haoM, 
I met my lassie braw and tight, 

Came wdding, barefoot, a' her lane : 
My heart grew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily neck. 
And kiss'd and clapp'd her there fou lang ; 

My words they were na mouy, feck. 




I said, my lassie, will ye go 




To the highland hills, the Earse to learn 






I'd baith gi'e thee a cow and ew. 


BONNY BARBARA ALLAN. 


When ye come to the brigg of Earn. 




At Leith, auld meal comes in, ne'er fash. 


It was in and about the Martinmas time, 


And herrings at the Brooniy Law . 


When the green leaves were a- falling. 


Chear up your heart, my bonny lass, 


That Sir John Graeme in the west country 


There's gear to win we never saw. 


Fell in love with Barbara Allan. ( 






All day when we have wrought enough, 


He sent his man down through the town. 


When winter, frosts, and snaw begin, 


To the place where she was dwelling. 


Soon as the sun gaes west the loch. 


haste, and come to my master dear, 


At night when you sit down to spin, 


Gin ye be Barbara Allan. 


ril screw my pipes and play a spring : 




And thus the weary night will end^ 


O hooly, hooly rose she up, 


Till the tender kid and lamb-time briig 


To the place where he was lying» 


Our pleasant summer back again. 


J 



SONGS. 



Svne when the trees are in their bloom. 

And gowans glent o'er ilka field, 
r 11 meet my lass among the broom. 

And lead you to my suiiimer-shield. 
Then far frae a' their scornfu' din. 

That make the kindly hearts their sport, 
We'll laugh and kiss, and dance and sing. 

And gar the laogest day seem short. 



THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.' 

DAVID MALLET. 

Tune — •' The Birks of Invermay. 

The smiling morn, the breathing spring. 

Invite the tuncfu' birds to sing ; 

And. while they warble from the spray, 

Love melts the universal lay. 

Let us, Amanda, timely wise. 

Like them, improve the hour that flies ; 

And in soft raptures waste the day, 

Among the birks of Invermay. 

For soon the winter of the year. 
And age, life's winter, will appear ; 
At this thy living bloom will fade, 
As that will strip the verdant shade. 
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er. 
The feather'd songsters are no more ; 
And when they drop, and we decay, 
Adieu the birks of Invermay ! 



THE BRAES O' BALLENDEAN. 



DR. BLACKLOCK. 



The Braes o* Ballendean." 

Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain 
Ae evening reclined, to discover his pain ; 
So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe, 
The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to 

flow ; 
Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him 

complain, 
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain. 



• Invermay is a small woody e!en, watered by the 
rivulet May, which there joins the river Earn. It is 
about five miles above the bridge of Earn, and nearly 
nine from Perth. I'he seat of Mr Belsehes, the pro- 
prietor of this poetical region, ami who takes from it 
nis territ irial desir^ation, stands at the bottom of the 
gicu. Beth sidesof the little valearecompletely wood- 
ed, chiefly with birches; and it is altogether, in point 
of natural loveliness, a >cone worthy of the attention 
of the amatory muse. The course of the May is so 
■unk among rocks, that it cannot be seen, but it can 
easily be traced in its i rogrcss by another sense. The 
peculiar sr)un<l which it makes in rushing through one 
particular part of its narrow, rugged, "and tortuous 
ehannel, has occasioned the descriptive appellation of 
the HumbU-BumhU to be atlachea to that quarter of 
the vale. Invermay may be at once and correctly de- 
scribed as the fi<irest possible little miniature specimen 
of cascade scenery. 

The song appeared in the 4th tolume of the Tea- 
fable Miscellany. 



How happy, he cried, my moments once flew. 
Ere Chioe's bright charms first flash'd in my 

view ! 
Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn could 

survey ; 
Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerfiil thas 

they. 
Now scents of distress please only my sight; 
I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light 

Through changes in vain relief I pursue, 
All, all but conspire my griefs to renew ; 
From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair— ^ 
To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air; 
But love's ardent fire burns always the same. 
No wiuter can cool it, no summer inflame. 

But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires ; 
The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires : 
I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind, 
Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind. 
Ah, wretch ! how can life be worthy thy care? 
To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair. ♦ 



TftE BRUME O* THE COWDEN- 

KNOWEvS. 

Tune—" The Brume o' the Cowdenknowes." 

How blyth, ilk morn, was I to see 

My swain come ower the hill ! 
He skipt the burn and flew to me : 
I met him with good will. 

Ok, the brume, the bonjiie, bonnie brume / 

The brvme o' the Cnwdenknowes I 
I wish I were xvith my dear swain, 
With his pipe and my yowes. 

I wanted neither yowe nor lamb, 

While his flock near me lay ; 
He gather'd in my sheep at night. 

And cheer'd me a the day. 

Oh, the brume t §'c. 

He tuned his pipe, and play'd sae sweety 

The birds sat listening bye ; 
E en the dull cattle siood and gazed, 

Charm'd with the melodye. 

Oh, the brume, ^c. 

Wliile thus we spent our time, by turns, 

Betwixt our flocks and play, 
f envied not the fairest dame, 

Though e'er so rich or gay. 

Oh, the brume, §c. 



» The celebrated Tenducci used to sing this song, 
wiih great effect, in St. Cecilia's Hall, at Edinburgh; 
alK)iit fifty \ears ago. Mr Tytler, who was a great na- 
tron of that obsolete place of amusenicnt, says, in nis 
Dissertatioi) on Scottish Music, " Who could heai 
with insensibility, or without being moved in the high- 
est de(.'r(e, I eiiducci sing, ' I'll never leave thee,' or^ 
• The Braes o' Ballendean.' The air was composed b* 
Oswald. 



[80 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Han] fate, that I should banisVd be, 
Gang heavily, and mourn, 

Because I loved the kindest swain 
That ever yet was born. 

Oh, the brume, 8fc. 

He did oblige me every hour ; 

CouVd 1 but faithful be ? 
He stawe my heart ; could I refuse 

Whate'er he ask'd of me ? 

Oh, the brume, 8re, 

My doggie, and my little kit 
That held my wee soup whey, 

My plaidie, brooch, and crookit stick, 
May now lie useless by. 

Oh, the brume, ^c. 

Adieu, ye Cowdenknowes, adieu ! 

Fareweel, a' pleasures there ! 
Ye gods, restore me to ray swain—. 

Is a' I crave or care. 

Oh, the brume, 8fc.* 



THE CARLE HE CAM OWER THE 
CRAFT. 

Tiine^-" The Carle he cam ower the Craft." 

Tke carle he cam ower the craft, 

Wi' his beard new-shaven ; 
He looked at me as he'd been daft, — 

The carle trowe.l th-.it I wad hae hira. 
Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
For a' his beard new-shaven, 

Ne'er a bit o' me will hae him. 

A siller brooch he gae me neist, 

To fasten on my curchie nookit ; 
I wore 't a wee upon my breist, 

But soon, alake ! the tongue o't crook' ; 
And sae may his ; T winna hae hira ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
Twice-a-bairu's a lassie's jest ; 

Sae ony fool for me may hae him. 

The carle has nae fault but ane ; 

For he has land and dollars plenty ; 
Rut, wae's me for him, skin and bane 

Is no for a plump lass of twenty. 
Hout awa, I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
What signifies his dirty riggs. 

And cash, without a man wi' them ? 



But should my ankert daddie gar 

Me tak him 'gainst my inclination^ 
1 warn the fumbler to beware 

That antlers dinna claim their statioi 
Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
Fm flee'd to crack the haly band, 

Sae lawty says, I shou'd aa hae hiiffl 



• As the reader may be supposed arxious to know 
jomething of the place which has thus been the subject 
of so much poetry, theeditor thinks it proper to inform 
him, that, " the Cowdenknowes," or, as sometimes 
gpelled in old writings, the Coldingknowes, are two 
httle hills on the east side of the vale of Lauderdale, 
Berwickshire. They lie immediately to the south of 
the village of Earlston, celebrated as the residence of 
*he earliest knorni Scottish poet, Thomas the Rhymer. 



THE WEE THINa 

MACNEIL. 

Tune—" Bomiie Dundee." 

Saw ye my wee thing ? saw ye my ain thing? 

Saw ye my true love down on yon lea ? 
Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloam- 
in'? 
Sought she the burnie whar ftow'rs the haw- 
tree ? 

Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it is milk 
white ; 

Dark is the blue o' her saft-rolling ee ; 
Red red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses : 

Whar could my wee thing wander fvae me ?— 

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your aia 

thing. 
Nor saw 1 your true love down on yon lea j 
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloarain. 
Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw 

tree. 

Her hair it was liut-white ; her skin it was 
milk-white ; 

Dark was the blue o' her saft-i oiling ee ; 
Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses ; 

Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me !— • 

ft was na my wee thing, it was na my ain 
thing, 

It was na my true love ye met by the tree : 
Proud is her leal heart ! and modest lier nature I 

She never loed onie till ance she loed me. 

Her name it is Mary ; she's frae Castle- Cary ; 

Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee ; 
Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer, 

Young bragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to 
thee ! — 

It was, then, your Mary ; she's frae Castle- 
Cary ; 
It was, then, your true love I met by the 
tree : 
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature. 
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me. — 

Sair gloom'd his dark brow — blood-red hii 
cheek grew — 
Wild flash'd the fire frae his red-rolling ee ' 



BONGS. 



81 



\e'se rue sair, this morning, your boasts and 
your scorning 
Defend ye, fause traitor • U<i , .:.!iy ;,e lie. — 

Awa wi* l^guiling cried the youth, smiling : 
Aff went the b mnet ; the lint-white locks 
flee ; 
"^he belled plaid la'iug, her white bosom shaw- 

Fair stdcHJ the loved uia.d wi' the dark-roll- 
ing ee ! 

Is it my v/ee thing ! is it mine ain thing ! 

Is it my true love here that I see ! — 
O Jamie, forgie me ; your heart's constant to 

me ; 
Ift never niair wander, dear ' ddie, frae thee ! 



THE WHITE COCK.\DE. 
The White Cockade." 



Mt love Wds bnrn in Aberdeen, 
The bonniest lad that e'er was s<>en ; 
But now he uiaives our hearts fu' sad — 
He's ta'en the field wi* his white cockade. 

O, he's u iix^Uiny roving blade ! 

O, he\s a brisk and a bonni^ lad ! 

Betide what may, V'ly heart is glad 

To nee mu lad wi' his white cockade. 

O, leeze me on the philabeg, 
The hairy hough, and garter'd leg ! 
But aye the thing that glads my ee, 
Is the whitf "ockade abo(*ii the bree. 
0> he's a ranting, §*c. 

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, 
My rippling kame, and spinning wheel, 
To buy my lad a tartan plaid, 
A braidswoid and a white cockade. 
O, he's a ranting, SfC. 

I'll sell my rokely and my tow. 
My gude grey mare and hawket cow, 
That every loyal Buchan lad 
I May tak the field wi' his white cockade. 
O \e's a ranting, ^c. 



THE WIDOW. 



ALLAN RAMSAV. 



The widow she's ybuthtVii, ..lo never ae hair 
'Ihe waur of tlie wening. and has a goo-i skaii- 
Of every thi-.g !uv.?ly ; she's witty and fair, 

And has a rich jointure, my Inddie- 
What could ve wi>.h better, your pleasure tc 

crown, 
Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town. 

With, Naethine but— irivv .• ■..•■■ - ' ■• ' • 

down. 

And sport with the widow, my laddie^ 

Then till her, and kill her with courtesie dead. 
Though stark love and kindness be all you cat 

plead ; 
Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed 

With the bonnie guy widow, my laddie- 
Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd Lave it tc 

wiH : 
For fortune ay favours the active and bauld, 
But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld 
Unfit for the widow, my laddie. 



THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE. 



OLD VERSES. 



Tun* — •• The yellow-haii'd 



The widow can bake, and the widow can brew, 
The widow can shape, and the widow can sew, 
And mony braw things the widow can do ; 

'1 hen have at the widow, iriy laddie. 
With courage attack her, baith early and late : 
To kiss her and clap her ye maunna be blate : 
Speak well, and do better ; for that's the best 
gate 

To win a young widow, iny Ltddia. 



The yellow-hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae.. 
Cried, Milk the yowes, lassie, let nane o' them 

gae ; 
And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang, 
The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be Uiy gudeman. 
And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang. 
The yellow-haired laddie shall be my gude- 



The weather is cauld, and my cleadin is thin, 
The yowes are new dipt, and they winna buch* 

in; 
They winna bucht in, although I should dee ; 
Oh, yellow-haird'd laddie, be kind unto me. 
And aye as she milkit, Sfc. 

The gudewife cries butt the house, Jennie, come 

ben ; 
The cheese is to mak, and the butter's to kiru. 
Though butter, and cheese, and a' should gang 

sour, 
I'll crack and I'll kiss wi' my love ae half hour. 
It's ae lang half hour, and well ten mak ii 

three. 
For the yeltoiv- haired laddie my gudeman 
shall be. • 




182 



BURNS' WORKS. 



IHE YOUNG LATRD AND EDINBURGH 
KATIE. 



Tune — " Tartan Screen.* 

Now wat ye wha I met yestreen, 

Coming down the street, my joe ? 
My mistress, in her tartan screen, 

Fu' bonnie, braw, and sweet, my joe ! 
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the nicht 

That never wiss'd a lover ill, 
Sin' ye're out o* your mither's sicht. 

Let's tak' a walk up to the hill.* 

Oh, Katie, wilt thou gang wi' me, 

And leave the dinsome toun a while ? 
The blossom's sprouting frae the tree. 

And a' creation's gaun to smile. 
The mavis, oichtingale, and lark, 

The bleating lambs and whistling hynd, 
In ilka dale, green shaw, and park, 

Will nourish health, and glad your mind. 

Sune as the clear gudeman o' day 

Docs bend his mornin' draught o* dew, 
We'll gae to some burn-side and play, 

And gather flouirs to busk your brow. 
We'll pou the daisies on the green, 

The lucken-gowans frae the bog ; 
Between hands, now and then, we'll lean 

And sport upon the velvet fog. 

There 's, up into a pleasant glen, 

A wee {)iece frae my father's tower, 
A canny, saft, and flowery den, 

Which circling birks have form'd a bower. 
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm, 

We'll to the caller shade remove ; 
There will I lock thee in my arm, 

And love aui kiss, and kisp and love. 



MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRIN' OWER 
ME ; 

IN ANSWER TO THE YOUNG LAIRD AND 
EUINBUKGH KATY. 

RAMSAY. 

X une — " My Mother's aye glowrin' ower me." 

^Iy mother's aye glowrin' ower me, 
Though she did the same before me ; 



* It is quite as remarkable as it is true, that tlu^ 
mode of ftourtship among people of the middle ranks 
in Edinburj:;h has undergone a complete change 
in the course of no more than the last thirty years. 
It used to be customary for lovers to walk together 
for hours, both during the day and the evening, in 
who Meadows, or the King's Park, or the fields now 
occupied by the New Town ; practices now only 
tnown to artizans and serving-girls. 

The song appeared in the Tea -Table Miscellany, 
•794. 



I ranna get leave 
To look at my love, 
Or else she'd be like to devour m*. 

Right fain wad 1 tak' your offer. 
Sweet Sir — but I'll tyne my tocher 
Then, Sandy, ye'll fret, 
And wyte your puir Kate, 
Whene'er ye keek in your toom coffer 

For though my father has plenty 
Of silver, and plenishing dainty, 

Yet he's unco sweir 

To twine wi' his gear ; 
And sae we had need to be tenty. 

Tutor my parent- wi' caution, 

Be wylie in ilka i otion ; 

Brag weel o' our land, 
And, there's uiy leal hand. 

Win them, I'll be at your devoticn. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 



OLD VERSES. 



Wandering Willie." 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie ' 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 

Lang have 1 sought- thee, dear have I bought 
thee ; 
Now I have gotten my Willie again. 

Through the lang muir I have followed mjr 
Willie ; 
Through the lang muir I have followed him 
hame. 
Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us ; 
Love m w rewa ds all my sorrow and pain. 

Here awa, there awa, here awa, Willie ! 

Here awa, there awa, here awa, hame ! 
Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me, 

Ilka thing pleases, when Willie's at hame. * 



CAM' YE O'ER FRAE FRANCE. 

Cam* }'e o'er frae Fraoc*, came ye doun by 

Lunnon, 
Saw ye Geordie Whelps and his bonny woman 
War' ye at the place ca'd the kittle-housie, 
Saw ye Geordie's grace, ridin' on a goosie. 

Geordie lie's a man, there 's little doubt oH, 
He's done a' he can, wha can do without it ; 
Down there cam' a blade, ankin' like a Jordie, 
He wad drive a trade at the loom o' Geordie.1 



* From Herd's Collection, 1776. 
t This plainly alludes to Count Kooirgiunari 
and the Q,ueen. 



SONGS, 



189 



The the claitlf were bad, hlythely may we niffer, 
Gin we get a wab, it mak's little differ ; 
We hae tint our plaid, bonnet, belt and swordie, 
Ha's and maillins braid, but we hae a Geordie. 

Hey for Sandy Don, hey for cookolorum. 

Hey for Bobbin* John and his Highland quo- 
rum ; 

Many a sword and lance swings at Highland 
hurdie. 

How they'll skip and dance o'er the bum o* 
Geordie. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

ANOTHER SET. 

Thi lawland lads think they are fine; 
But O they're vain and idiy gaudy ! 

How much unlike tnat gracefu' mien, 
And manly looks of my highland laddie ? 
O my bonny, bonny highland laddie, 
My handsome, charmiiig highland laddie ; 
May heaven still guard, and love reward 
Our lawland lass and her highland laddie. 

If I were free at will to chuse 

To be the wealthiest lawland lady, 

I'd take young Donald without trews, 
With bonnet blue, and belted plaidjr. 
O my bonny, 8fc. . 

The brawest beau in borrows- town, 
In a' his airs, with art made ready, 

Compar'd to him, he's but a clown j 
He's finer far in's tartan plaidy. 
O my bonny, Sfc. 

O'er benty hill with him I'll run, 

And leave my lawland kin and dady ; 

Frae winter's cauld, and summer's sun, 
He'll screen nie with his highland plaidy. 
O my bunny, Sfc. 

A painted room, and silken bed, 

May please a lawland laird and lady ; 

But I can kiss, and be as glad, 

Behind a bush in's highland plaidy. 
my bonny, Sfc. 

Few compliments between us pass, 
I ca* him my dear highland laddie, 

And he ca's me his lawland lass. 

Syne rows me in l)eneath his olaidy. 
O my bonny, 8fc. 

Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend. 

Than that his love provs true and steady, 
Like mine to liim, which ne'er shall end, 

While heaven preserves my highland laddie. 
O my bonny, ^c. 



JENNY NETTLES. 

Saw ye Jenny Nettles, 

Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, 
Saw ye Jenny Nettles 

Coming frae the market ? 
Bag and baggage on her back. 

Her fee and bountith in her lap; 
Bag and baggage on her back, 

And a babie in her oxtei ? 

I met ayont the kairny, 

Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, 
Singing till her bairny, 

Robin Rattle's bastard ; 
To flee the dool upo' the stool, 

And ilka ane that mocks her. 
She round about seeks Robin out|» 

To stap it in his oxter 

Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, 

Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle; 
Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, 

Use Jenny Nettles kindly : 
Score out the blame, and shun the i 

And without mair debate o't, 
Tak hame your wean, make Jenny fain 

The leel and leesome gate o't. 



O MERRY MAY THE MAID BE 

SIR JOHN Cl.ERK OF PENNYCUICK. 

Tutu — " Merry may the Maid be." 

O, MERRY may the maid be 

That marries the miller ! 
For, foul day or fair day. 

He's aye bringing till her. 
H'as aye a penny in his pouch. 

For dinner or for supper ; 
Wi' beef, and pease, and melting cheeae^ 

An' lumps o' yellow butter. 

Behind the door stands bags o' meal, 

And in the ark is plenty, 
And good hard cakes his mither bakes, 

And mony a sweeter dainty. 
A good fat sow, a sleeky cow. 

Are standing in the byre; 
Whilst winking puss, wi' mealy mou. 

Is playing round the fire. 

Good signs are these, my mither says, 

And bids me take the miller ; 
A miller's wife's a merry wife. 

And he's aye bringing till her. 
For meal or maut she'll never want, 

Till wood and water's scanty ; 
As lang's there's cocks and clockin hen% 

She'll aye hae eggs in plenty. 



iS4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE TAILOR. 

The Tailoi fell thro' the bed thimble3 an* a', 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a*, 
The blankets were thin and the sheets they were 

sina*, 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed thim^lps an' a'. 

The lassie was sleepy and thought on nae ill ; 
The weather was cauld and the lassie lay still ; 
The ninth part o' manhood may sure hae its 

will ; 
She kent weel the Tailor could do her nae ill. 



and thought in a 
and then felled 



The Tailor grew droosy 

dream, 
How he raulked out the claith 

ill the seam ; 
A while ayont midnight, before the cocks craw, 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a'. 

The day it has come, and the nicht it has gane, 
Said the bonnie young lassie when sighing 

alane : 
Since men are but scant, it wad gee me mjs 

pain, 
To see the bit Tailor come skippin again. 



AWA, WHIGS, AWA! 



JACOBITE SONG. 



• Awa, Whigs, awa!" 

Oi;r thistles fiourish*d fresh and fair, 

And benny bloom'd our roses, 
But Wliigs came, like a fi-ost in June, 
And wither'd a' our posies. 
Awa, Wliigs, awa ! 

A way Whigs, awa ! 
Ye re but a pack o' traitor loons ; 
Ye'U ne'er do pood at a'. 

Our sad decay in church and state 

Surpasses my descriving ; 
The Whigs came o'er us for a curse. 

And we have done wi' thriving. 

Awa, Whigs I awa, Sfc, 

A foreign Whiggish loon bought seeds, 

In Scottish yird to cover ; 
But we'll pu' a* his dibbled leeks, 

And pack h' m to Hanover. 

Awa, Whigs! awa, §*c. 

Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust, 
Deil blind them wi' the stour o't ! 

And write their names in his black beuk, 
Wha g-i'e the Whigs the power o't ! 
Awa, Whi I awa, ^c. 



Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, 
But we may see him wauken ; 

Gude help the day, when royal heads 
Are hunted like a maukin ! 

Awa, Whigs ' awa, Sfti. 

The deil he heard the stour o' tongues, 
And ramping came amang us ; 

But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs,—. 
He turn'd and wadna wrang iis. 

Awa, Whigs ! awa, Sfc 

Sae grim he sat amang the reek, 

Thrang bundling brimstone matches ; 
And croon'd, 'mang the beuk-taJ<ing Whig»^, 
Scraps of auld Calvin's catches. 
Awa, Whigs, awa ! 

Awa, Whigs, awa ! 
Ye'll rin me out o' wun spunks, 
And ne'er do good at a. 



LOCH-NA-GARR. 



Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses. 
In you let the uiinions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake re 

poses. 
If still they are sacred to freedom and love. 
Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains. 
Round their white summits tho' elements war, 
Tho* cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing 

fountains, 
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. 

Shades of the dead ! have I heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale. 

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland 
dale. 

Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist ga- 
thers. 

Winter presides in his cold icy car ; 

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers, 

They dwell 'raid the tempests of dark Loch> 
na-garr. 



THE MERRY MEN, O. 

When I was red, and ripe, and crouse. 
Ripe and crouse, ripe and crouse. 

My father built a wee house, a wee house, 
To baud me frae the men, O. 

There came a lad and gae a shout, 
Gae a shout, gae a shout. 



186 



The wa's fell in, and I fell out, 
Amaug tlie merry men, O. 

I dream sic sweet things in my sleep, 

In my sleep, in my sleep, 
My minny says I winna ke^jp, 

Amang sae mony men, O. 
Vthen plums are ripe, they should be foo'd, 

Should be poo'd, should be poo'd, 
When maids are ripe, they should be woo'd 

At seven years and ten, O. 

My love, 1 cried it, at the port. 

At the port, at the port, 
The captain bade a guinea for't, 

The colonel he bade ten, O. 
The chaplain he bade siller for't, 

Siller for't, siller for't, 
But the sergeant bade ine naething for't, 

Yet he cam farthest ben, O. 



KENMURE'S ON AND AW A, WILLIE. 



Kenmure's on and awa." 

D, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie, 

O, Kenmure's on and awa; 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Succes to Kenmure's band, Willie, 

Success to Kenmure's band ! 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig, 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, 
Here's Kenumre's health in wine ! 

There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, 
Nor yet o* Gordon's line. 

O, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, 

O, ivenmure's lads are men ! 
Their hearts and swords are metal true ; 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie, 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But Kune wi' sound and victoiie 

May Kenmure's lord come hame ! 

Hire's hin. that's far awa, Willie, 

Here's him that's far awa ; 
And here's the flower that I lo'e best, 

The rose that's like the snaw. 



POLWART ON THE GREEN. 

At Polwart on the green, 
If you'll meet me the mom, 

Where lasses do couveae 
To danc« about the tuiom, 



A kindly welcome you shall meet 
Frae her wha likes to view 

A lover and a lad complete, 
The lad and lover you. 

Let dorty dames say Na, 

As lang as e'er they please, 
Seem caulder than the sua', 

While inwardly they bleeze ; 
But I will frankly shaw my ncind. 

And yield my heart to thee ; 
Be ever to the captive kind, 

That langs na to be free. 

At Polwart on the green, 

Amang the new-mawn hay. 
With sangs and dancing keen 

We'll pass the heartsome day. 
At nightj, if beds be o'er thrang laid. 

And thou be twin'd of thine. 
Thou shalt be welcome, ray dear lad» 

To take a part of mine. 



HAME NEVER CAIME HE. 

Saddled, and bridled, and booted rode he, 
A plume in his helmet, a sword at his knee ; 
But toom cam' the saddle, all bluidy to see, 
And hame cam' the steed, but hame never cant 
he. 

Down cam* his gray father, sabbin' sae sair, 
Down cam' his auld mither, tearing her hair, 
Down cam' his sweet wife wi' bomiie bairn. 

three, 
Ane at her bosom, and twa at her knee. 

There stood the fleet steed all foamin' and hot, 
There shriek'd his sweet wife, and sank on th« 

spot, 
There stood his gray father, weeping sae free, 
So hame cam' his steed, but hame never cam 

he. 



THE BOB OF DUMBLANE. 

Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, 

And I'll lend you my thripling kame; 
For fainness, deary, I'll gar ye keckle, 

If ye'll go dance the Bob cf Dumbline. 
Haste ye, gang to the ground of your trunkies. 

Busk ye braw, and dinna think shame ; 
Consider in time, if leading of monkies 

Be better than dancing the Bob of Dumblane, 

Be frank, my lassie, lest I grow fickle. 
And take my word and offer again, 

Syne ye may chance to repent it mickle, 
Ye did na accept the Bob of Dumblan«. 



186 



BURNS' WORKS. 



rhe dinner, tlie piper, and prust shall be ready, 
And I'm grown dowy with lying my lane ; 

4.way then, leave haith minny and dady, 
And try with me the Bob of Dumblaae. 



LOCHABER NO MORE 
Tune — " Lociiiiber no more." 

Farewell to Lochnber, and farewell tay Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been ; 
For Lochaber no n\ore, Lochaber no more, 
We'll may be return to Lochaber no more. 
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, 
And no for the dangers attending on weir, 
Tho bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
May be to return to Lochaber no more. 

Tho* hurricanes rise, and rise ev'ry wind, 
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in ray 

mind. 
Tho* loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, 
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd, 
By ease that's inglorious, no fame can begaiu'd. 
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 
And I must deserve it beforts I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse, 
Since honour comnuinds me, how can I refuse? 
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, 
And without thy favour I'd better not be. 
I gae thenf my lass, to win honour and fame, 
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
1*11 bring a heart to thee with love running o'er. 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 



JOCKY SAID TO JEANY. 

JocKY said to Jeany, Jcany, wilt thou do't ? 
Ne'er a fit, quo' Jeanv, for my tocher -good, 
For my tocher-good, I winna marry thee. 
E'eus ye like, quo* Jockey, ye may let it be. 

I hae gowd and gear, I hae land enough, 
I hae seven good owsen ganging in a pleugh, 
Ganging in a pleugh, and Unking o'er the lee, 
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. 

I hae a good ha' house, a barn and a byre, 
A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantin fire, 
ril make a rantin fire, and merry ohall we be ; 
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. 

Jeany said to Jocky, Gin ye winna tell, 
Ye shall be the lad, I'll be the lass mysell. 
Ye're a bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free, 
Ve*re welcomer to tak me than to let me be. 



THE LOWLANDS OF HOI LAND 

ANOTHER VERSION 

The luve that I hae chosen 

I'll therewith be content; 
The saut sea will be frozen 

Before that I repent ; 
Repent it will I nevor 

Until the day I die, 
Though the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love and me. 

My luve lies in the saut sea, 

And I am on the side ; 
Enough to break a young thing's heart 

Wha lately was a bride — 
Wha lately was a happy l)ride 

And pleasure in her ee ; 
But the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love and me 

Oh ! Holland is a barren place. 

In it there grows nae grain. 
Nor ony habitation 

Wherein for to remain ; 
But the sugar canes are plenty, 

And the wine draps frae the tree , 
But the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love and me. 

My love he built a bonnie ship, 

And sent her to the sea, 
Wi' seven score guid mariners 

To bear her companie. 
Three score to the bottom gaed. 

And three score died at sea ; 
And the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love and me. 



JENNY DANG THE WEAVE* 

Jenny lap, and Jenny flang, 

Jenny dang the weaver ; 
The piper played as Jenny sprang, 

An' aye she dang the weaver. 

As I cam in by Fisherrow, 

Musselburgh was near me, 
I threw a£F the mussel- pock. 

And courtit wi' my deerie. 

Had Jenny's apron bidden down 
The kirk wad ne'er hae ken'd it j 

But now the word 's gane thro the towa, 
The devil canna mend it. 

Jenny lap, and Jenny flang, 

Jenny dang the weaver ; 
The piper played as Jenny sprang, 

And aye she dang the weaver. 



^' — ■ — 


SONGS 187 


4*J I WENT OUT AE MAY MORNING. 


We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear 




Thou feckless German lairdie ! 


As I went out ae May morning. 




Ae May morning it happened tj be, 


Auld Scotland, thou'rt ewer cauld a hole 


there I saw a very bonnie lass 


For nursin* siccan vermin ; 


Come linkin' o'er the lea to me. 


But the very dougs o' England's court 


Aud O she was a weel-faud lass, 


They bark and howl in German. 


Sweet as the flower sae newly sprung; 


Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand, 


I said, fair maid, an' ye fancy rae, 


Thy spade but and thy yardie ; 


When she laughing said, I am too young. 


For wha the deil hae we gotten for a kingi 


But- a wee, wee German laiidie? 


To be your bride I am too young, 




Anil far our proud to be your loon ; 






This is the merry month of May, 




But I'll be aulder, Sir, in June. 




Ihe hawthorns flourished fresh and fair, 


THE FORAY. 


And o'er our heads the small birds sing, 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


And never a word the lassie said, 




But, gentle Sir, I am too young. 


The last of our steers on fthe board has been 




spread, 




And the last flask of wine in our goblets is red : 




Up, up, my brave kinsmen ! — belt swords and 






begone ; 


THE W^EE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIfl. 


There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to 
won ! 


Wha the deil hae we gotten for a king, 


The eyes that so lately mixed glances with ours, 


But a wee, wee Geiman lairdie ? 


For a space must be dim, as they gaze from tb« 


And, when we gaed to bring him, 


towers, 


He was delving in his yardie : 


And strive to distinguish, through tempest and 


Sheughing kail, and laying leeks, 


gloom, 


But the hose, and but the breeks ; 


The prance of the steeds and the top of the 


And up his beggar duds he cleeks— 


plume. 


This wee, wee German lairdie. 






The rain is descending, the wind rises loud. 


And he's clapt down in our gudemau's chair, 


The moon her red beacon has veiled with a 


The wee, wee German lairdie ; 


cloud — 


And he's bn)Ui;ht fouth o' foreign trash. 


'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull 


And dibbled them in his yardie. 


eye 


He's pu'd the rose o* English loons. 


Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are 


And broken the harp o' Irish clowns; 


nigh. 


But our thistle taps will jag his thumbs — 




This wee, wee German lairdie. 


Our steeds are impatient — I hear my blythe 




grey ; 


Come up amang our High.and hills, 


There is life in his hoof-clang and hope in his 


Thou wee, wee German lairdie, 


neigh ; 


And see the Stuart's lang-kail thrive 


Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of hif 


We dibbled in our yardie : 


mane 


And if a stock ye dare to pu'. 


Shall marshal your march through the dark- 


Or baud the yoking o' a plough, 


ness and rain. 


We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou , 




Thou wee bit German lairdie. 


The draw-bridge has dropped, and the bugle 




has blown ; 


Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, 


One pledge is to quaflf yet — then mount and 


Nae fitting for a yardie ; 


begone : 


And our Norland thistles winna pu', 


To their honour and peace that shall rest with 


Thou wee bit German lairdie : 


the slain ! 


And we've the trenching blades o' weir, 


To their health and their glee that see Tevio* 


<^'id prune ye o' your German gear— 

1 


again ! 


1 



188 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



ADIEU ; \ HEART- WARM FOND ADIEU! 
Tune—" The Peacock." 

Adieu ! a heart-warm fond adieu! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Though I to foreign lands must hie. 

Pursuing Fortune's sliddry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

ru mind you still, though far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful festive night ; 
Oft, honour*d with supreme command, 

Presideci o'er the sons of light ; 
And by that hieroglyphic bright. 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong memory on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa ! 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath the Omniscient Eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you Ha^/ keep th* unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine — 

Shall be my prayer when far awa. 

And you, farewell I whose merits claim. 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request peimit me here. 

When yearly ye assemble a*, 
One round, 1 a-sk it with a tear, 

To him, the bard, that's far awa,* 



AE FOND KISS. 

Ab fond kiss, and then we sever ; 

Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 

War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



• Written as a sort of farewel! to the Masonic com- 
panions of his youth, when the poet was on the point 

of IcavLo^ Scotl^ind for Jamaica^ 1 786. 



Who sliail say that fortune grieves luOk, 
While the star of hope she leaves bin? ? 
Me, nae cheerfu twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair araund benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame thy partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly ; 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee well, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thi 
War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



AFTON WATER. 

Tune — •• The Yellow-hair'd Laddie." 

Flow pently, sweet Afton, among thy greee 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise , 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream ; 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds througl 
the glen, 

Ye wild-whistling blackbirds, in yon flowery 
den. 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
bear, 

I charge you, disturb not ray slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills. 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear-winding 

rills; 
There daily I wander, as mor* rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye, 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow 
There oft, as mild evening creeps o'er the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and mo 



SONGS 



.89 



Thv cn'stai streani, Afton, now lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my 3Idry resides ! 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
A.S, gath'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy 
clear wave ! 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes ; 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream ; 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES. 



T^f 



Johnnie's Grey Breeks." 



A^GAiy rejoicing nature sees 

Her rohe assume its vernal hues ; 

tier leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw ; 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team ; 

Wi' joy the tentie seedman stauks ; 
But life to me's a weary dream, 

A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The wanton coot the water skims ; 

Amanii the reeds the ducklings cry ; 
The stately swan majestic swims ; 

And every thing is blest but I. 

The shepherd steeks his fiulding slaps, 
And o'er the moorland whistles shrill ; 

Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark. 
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, 
A woe-w(irn ghaist, I hameward glide. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
AlJ raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my clieerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 



A HIGHLAND LAD MY LOVE WAS 
BORN. 

THE " RAUCI.E CARLINe's" SONO IN THE 
" JOI.LY BEGGARS." 

Tune — " O an ye wai dead, guidman !" 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
Hip Lawland laws he held in scorn ; 



But he still wnt faithful to his can, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman ! 

Sivg hey, my braw John Highlandman I 

Sing ho, wy braw John Highlandman ! 

There's not a' lad in a the land. 

Was match for my braw John Highlandman! 

With his philabeg and tartan plaid, 
And gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey ^c. 

We ranged a* from Tweed to Spey, 
And lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lawland face he feared none, 
My gallant braw John Highlandncan. 
Sing hey, Sfc. 

They banished him beyond the sea ; 
But, ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my btaw John HighlaDdman« 
Sing hey, Sfc. 

But, och ! they catched him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hanged my braw John Highlandman ■ 
Sing hey, Sfc. 

And now, a widow, I must mourn 
Departed joys that ne'er return, 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When 1 think on John Highlandroan. 
Sing hey, SfC. 



AMANG THE TREES WHERE HUM 
MING BEES. 

Tune—'* The King of France, he rade * RaoSw 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O ; 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
*Twas Pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reelr 

She dirl'd them afi^, fu' clearly, O ; 
When there cam a yell o' foreign 8que»*« 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O — 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha'», 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

'Till we were wae and weary, O— • 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa. 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang tl f;m tapsalteerie, O. 



190 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. 
Tune—" For a' that, and a* that. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward-sliive, we pass him by j 

We daur be pair for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a* that, 
The rank is but the gdinea-stamp— 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin-grey, and a' that ? 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine ; 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that. 
The honest man, though e'er sae puir, 

Is king o' men for a* that. 

Ve see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a* that ; 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a cuif for a' that. 
For a' that, and a* that, 

His rihl)on, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a* that. 

A king can make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his micht, 

Gude faith, he maunna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, the pride o* worth. 

Are higher ranks for a' that. 

Then let us pray, that comb it may, 

As come it will, for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a* the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's com in' yet for a' that, 
That man to nr.an, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that 



ANNA. 
' Banks of 



Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The raven locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness. 

Rejoicing ower his manna. 
Was naething to my hinny bliss. 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye nonarchs tak the east and west, 
Frae Indus to Savannah ! 



Gie me within ray straining grasp 
The melting form of Anna. 

There I'll despise imperial charms. 
An empress or sultana. 

While dying raptures, in her arms 
I give and take with Anaa. 

Awa, thou flaunting god of day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn 
And bring aii angel pen to write 

My transports with my Anna. * 



ANNIE. 
Tune—" Allan Water." 

I WALKED out with the Museum in my hand 
and turning up Allan Water, the words appeared 
to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, so I sat 
and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I 
wrote one to suit the measure. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi, 
The winds were whisp'ring through the grore^ 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang. 

And thought on \oiithful pleasures many; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower ; 

Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I meet my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever ! 
While many a kiss the seal impress'd. 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should serer. 

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae ; 

The Simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheerie, through her short'ning day, 

Is Autumn in her weeds of yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure. 
Or through each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



♦ This song, like " Highland Mary," affords a strong 
proof of the power which poetry possesses of raising 
and subUming objects. Highland Mary was the dairy- 
maid of Coilsfield ; Anna is said to have been some- 
thing meaner. The poet sure was in a fine phrenzy 
rolling when he said, '• I think thi* is the best love- 
long 1 ever wrote." 



?ONG& 



191 



A RED RED ROSE. 
" Low down in the Brume.' 



O, MT luve's like a red red r«s€^ 
That's newly sprung in June ; 

O, my luve's like the melodie. 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

Sae deep in luve am I ; 
\nd I will love thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

rill a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi* the sun ; 
will love thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

\nd fare thee weel, my only luve, 
And fare thee weel a while ! 

And I will come again, my luve, 
Though it were ten thousand mile. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruik- 
shank, only child to my worthy friend Mr. 
William Ciuikshank of the High-School, Edin- 
burgh, The air is by David Sillar, quondam 
merchant, now schoolmaster, in Irvine : the 
Davie to whom I address my poetical epistle, 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a coru-inclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread. 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, htr covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall seo her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fre^h green leaves bedewed, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air. 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tenta thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet ro'se-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watched thy early morning. 



A SOUTHLAND JENNY. 

This is a popular Ayrshire song, though the 
notes were never taken down before. — It, a. 
well as many of the ballad tunes in this co.lec- 
tion, was written from ftlrs. Burns's voice. 

A Southland Jenny that was right bonny, 
Had for a suitor a Norland Johnnie, 
But he was sicken a bashfu* wooer, 
That he could scarcely speak unto her. 

But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller 
Forced him at last to tell his mind till her ; 
My dear, quo' he, we'll nao langer tarry, 
Gin ye can lo'e me, let's o'er the moor and marry 

Come awa then, my Norland laddie, 
Tho' we gang neat, some are mair gaudy ; 
Albeit I hae neither land nor money, 
Come, and I'll ware my beiuty on thee. 

Ye lasses o' the South, ye're a' for diessin ; 
Lasses o' the North, mind milkin and threshin ^ 
My minnie wad be angry, and sae wad mj 

daddie, 
Should I marry ane as dink as a lady. 

I maun hae a wife that will rise i' the mornin, 
Cruddle a' the milk, and keep the house a 

scauldin ; 
Tulzie wi' her neebors, and learn at my minnie, 
A Norland Jocky maun hae a Norland Jenny, 

My father's only dochter, wV farms and Si..„ 

ready. 
Wad be ill bestowed upon sic a clownish body ; 
A' that I said was to try what was in thee, 
Gae hame, ye Norland Jockie, and court youf 

Norland Jenny ! 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to mind? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne ! 

For auld lang syne, my joy 

For auld lanr ^yne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne I 

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup ' 

And surely I'll be mine ! 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, Sfc. 

We twa hae run about the braes. 
And pou't the gowans fine ; 

But we've wander'd mony a weary fioot 
Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, ^c. 



192 



BURNS' WORKS. 



We twa hae paull't i* the bi>rn, 
Frae nu^rning sun 'till dine; 
But seas l)et\veen us braid hae roar'd, 

Sin auld l;ing syne. 
Fur auld, Sfc. 

A.ad there's a han\ my trusty fiere, 

And jjies a han' o' thine ! 
A.nd we'll tdk a right gude willy-waught 

For auld lang syne ! 
For auld, 8^c. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris, that wins in yon 

glen, 
He's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld 

men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers ; he has ousen and 

kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh in the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the evening among the new hay ; 
\.s blythe, and as artless, as the lamb on the 

lea ; 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But oh ! she's an heiress : auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cothouse and 

yard. 
A wooer like me mauna hope to come speed. 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 

dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

breast ! 

Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 

I then might hae hop'a she wad smil'd upon 

me ; 
O how past deserving 'uad then been my bless, 
As now my distraction, no words can express. 



3ESSY AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

Tune—" The oottom of the Punch Bowl* 

O LEKZR me on my spinning-wheel ! 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ! 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. 
And haps me t'eil * and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me doun, and sing, and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun ; 

* Covers tne with a stuff agree? *»1< to the sun. 



Blest wi' content, and milk, and 
O leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest. 
And little fishes' caller rest ^ 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel, 
Where blythe I turn my spinning-whed 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the clover hay. 
The paitrick whirring ower the lea. 
The swallow jinkin' round my shie! 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome jo)r8 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? 



BEWARE O' BONNIE ANV 

I COMPOSED this song out of conipUiwent to 
Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend, 
Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath- 
allan's Lament, and two or three others in thit 
work. 

Ye gallants bright I red ye right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace. 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night. 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist. 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendai.it moT •, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering unu, 

1 ney wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the 'landl^ 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a*. 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



SONGS 



193 



BEHOLD THE HOUR, 
ARRIVE. 

Time — •• Oran Oa 



THE BOAT 



Behold the hour, the hoat arrive ; 

Thou c;oest, thou darling of my heart \ 
Sever'd from thee, can I survive? 

But fate nas will'd, and we must part. 
C\\ often ffreet this, surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
- K on heie I took my last farewell, 

There latest raark'd her vanish'd sail." 

.\long the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the roiling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

\Vniere now my Nancy s path may be ! 
While through thy sweets she loves to stray. 

Oh, tell me, does she muse on me ? 



BEYOND THEE, DEARIE. 

It is remarkable of this air, that it is the con 
fine (if that country where the greatest part of 
our Lowland music, (so far as from the title, 
words, &c. we can localize it), has been com- 
posed. From Craigie-biirn, near INIoffat, until 
one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarce- 
ly one slow air of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion which 
a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had 
for a Mis« Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelp- 
si ile. — The young lady was born at Craigie- 
hurn wood. — The chorus is part of an old fool- 
ish ballad.— 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 

And O to be lying beyorid thee, 
sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep. 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 



CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 

SwKET doses the evening on Craigie-burn wood, 

And l)lythely awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the sprisg in the Craigie-bum 
wood, 
Can yu:id me to nothing but sorrow. 
Btyotui thee, Sfc. 

I see the -spreading leaves and flowers, 

1 hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me, 

While care my heart is wringing 
lieyond thee, ifc. 

eanna tell, I maun na toll, 
I dare oa for your anger ; 



But secret love will break my heart* 
If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond, thee, jfc. 

1 see thee gracefii*, straight and talL 
I see thee sweet and bonnie, 

But oh, what will my torments be^ 
If thou refuse thy Jiibnie ! 
Beyond thee, ^c. 

To see thee in anither's arms, 
In love to lie and languish, 

*Twad be my dead, that will be seen* 

My heart wad burst wi' anguiBh. 

Beyond thee, §*c. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; 

And a' my days o* life to come, 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 
Beyond thee, S^c. 



BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YOP HILI 
Tun*—" Liggeram cosh." 

Bltthe hae I been on yon hill. 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er rae : 
Now nae langer s-port and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me . 
Lesley is sae fair and coy. 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but gloWT 

Sighing, dumb, despairing! 
If she winna ease the thraws, 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass-green sod. 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

Blythe, blythe and merry was shgf 
Blylhe teas she but and bf.n ,• 

Blythe by the banks of Ern, 
And blythe in Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik. 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaW ; 

But Pheinie was a bonnnier lass 
Than l)iaes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blythe, §-c. 

Her looks were like a flow'r m May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn : 



iji 



BURMS VVO:^KS. 



She trip'iR'd hj the ivmKs of Ern, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
JHlythe, §-c. 

Her bonny face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The eveuiug ?■ in was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemle's e'e. 
Blythe, 8fc. 

The Highland 1x111*8 I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

Biit Phemie was the blythest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blythe, ^c. 



BONNIE WEE THING 



Tune — " Bonnie Wee Thing.'' 



Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Loveiy wee thing, weit thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine 

Wistfully I look and languish 
In that bonnie face o' thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o* this soul o' mine ? 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest ray jewel I should tine. 



BONNIE BELL. 

The sncilieg Spring comes in rejoicing. 

And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the mor- 
ning, 

Ihe ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flow'ry Spring leads sunnv Summer, 
And yellow Autumn presses near. 

Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 
Till smiling Spring again appear. 

Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 

But Oliver vamring, still unchanging 
^ adore aiv lionnie Bell. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 
T^me—" The Colliei's bonnie Lsasie. 

O, SAW ye bonnie Leslej', 

As she gaed o'er the Border ? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farthei. 
To see her is to love her, 

And love but her for ever ; 
For nature made her what she 1% 

And never made anither ' 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 

Thy subjects we before thee; 
Thou art divine, fair Lesley; 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 
The Deil he could ni scaith thee, 

Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
He'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, I canna wrang thee f 

The Powers aboon will tent thee, 

Misfortune shanna steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovelv, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thn 
Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie.* 



BONNIE JEAI*. 
Tune-^" Bonnie Jean." 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen ; 

When a' the fairest maids were met. 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's warft, 
And aye she sang sae merrilie ; 

The blythest bird up(m the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers. 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad. 
The flower and pride of a' the glee ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye. 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. 
He danced wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, I er peace was stown. 



» Written in honour ot Miss Lesley Haillie of Ay: 
shire, (now Mrs Cumminc! of Logie), when on hm 
way to England, nrough Dumfries. 



SONGS 



Idd 



A* in the bosom o' the stream 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en, 

So trembling, pure, was tender lo\'e, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sighs wi' grief and pain ; 

Yet wistna what her ail might be. 
Or what wad make her weel again. 

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And didua joy blink in her ee, 

As Robie fauld a taie o' love, 
Ae e'ening, on the lily lea? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang s^veet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale of love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo*e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mimraie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

At barn nor byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naethiiig else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells. 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 



Wlia, for Scotland's k'j^ and law. 
Freedom s swoid will strongly JraWt 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains, 
By your sons in servile chains. 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be free. 

Lay the proud usurpers low, 
Tyrants fall in every foe, 
Liberty's in eveiy blow. 
Let us do, or die ! 



HEY TUTTIE TAITTIE. 

I have met the tradition universally over 
Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in 
the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air 
was Robert Bruce's march at the Battle of Ban- 
Qockburn. 

BRUCE'S ADDRESS 

TO HIS TROOPS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF 
BANNOCKBURN. 

Tune—" Hey tuttie taittie." 

Scots, wha hae wi* Wallace bled ! 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ! 
Welcome to your gory hvA, 
Or to victorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour : 
See the front of battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will l)e a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grare'' 
Wha sae ba.>e as be a slave ? 
Let bijtr. turr ** fl*« ' 



CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the burnie rowes, 
My bounie dearie. 

Hark, the mavis' evening sang. 
Sounding Chiden's woods amang; 
Then a-fiul(ling let us gang, 
My bonuie dearie. 

We'll gang doun by Cluden side, 
Through the hazels spreading wide 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Yonder Cluden's silent towers, 
Where, at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy budding flowers 

The '"liries dance sae cheerie. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill 'nay come thee near. 
My 'onnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stoun my very hearty 
I can die — but canna part. 
My bonnie dearie. 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, M"\i 
KATY? 

Tune—" Roy's wife." 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy .' 
Well thou knowest my aching heart. 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity? 

Is this thy plighted fond r'gard. 

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 
Is this thy faithful swain's rewara — 

An aching, broken heart, mv Katv* 



!96 



BURNS WORKS. 



Farewell ! and ne*er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 



REPLY TO THE ABOVE 

5 T A YOUNG ENGI ISH GENTLEWOMAN. FOUND 
AMONGST BURNS'S MANUSCRIPTS AFTER HIS 
DECEASE. 

Stay, my Willie — ^yet believe me, 
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me; 
'Tweel, thou know'st na every pang 
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. 

Tell me that thou yet art true, 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven ; 

And when this heart proves false to thee, 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 

But to think I was betray'd, 

That falsehood e'er our loves should suader ! 
To take the floweret to my breast, 

And find the guilefu' serpent umler ! 

Comri f hope thou'dst ne'er deceive me. 
Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 

I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 

Tliat heaven I'd find within tliy bosom. 



He wanders as free as the wind on his mountains. 
Save love's willing fetters — the chaius of kit 
Jean. • 



CHLOE. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SOMO 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay, 
One morning by the break of day. 
The youthful, charming Chloe ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Gilt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she hy the dawn, 

Youthful Chine, charming Chloe^ 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charmijig Chloe, 

The feather'd p' ^)Ie you might see 
Perch *d all around on every tree, 



CALEDONIA. 

Their groves O sweet myrtles let foreign lands 
reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per- 
fume ; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
With the burn stealing under the lang yellow 
broom. 

Far Jearer to me yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue bell and gowan lurk lowly 
unseen ; 

I'or there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

rhough rich is the breeze, in their gay sunny 
vallies, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands, that skirt the 
proud palace, 
W\vit are they 1 — the haunt o' the tyrant and 
slave ! 

fhe slave's spicy forests and gold-bubbling 
fountains. 
The brnve Caledonian views wi* disdain ; 



» Burns wrote this sf)ngin compliment to Mrs. Burnt 
during tht'ir honeymoon. The air, v/ith many others 
of equal beauty, was the composition of a Mr. Mar- 
shall, who, in Burns's time, v/as butler to the Duke 
of Gordon. 

This beautiful song — beautiful for both its amatory 
and its patriotic sentiment — seems to have been com- 
posed by Bums during the period when he was court- 
mg the lady who afterwards became his wife. The 
present generation is much interested in this la<iy, and 
deservedly ; as, in addition to her poetical history, 
which is an extremely interesting one, she is a person- 
age of the greatc St private worth, and in every respect 
deserving to be esteemed as the widow of Scotland's 
best aud most endeared bard. The following anecdote 
will [)ei Iiaps be held as testifying, in no inconsideralile 
degree, to a quality which she may not hitherto have 
been supp'^sed to possess — her wit. 

Jt is generally known, that Mrs. Burns has, ever sinee 
her hiisbaiid's death, occupied exactly the same hous« 
in Dumfries, which she inhabited before that event, 
and that it is customary for strangers, who happen to 

Eass through or visit the town, to pay their res|;ects to 
er, with or without letters of introduction, precisely 
as they do to the churchyard, the bridge, the harbour, 
or any other public object of curiosity about the place. 
A gay young English gentleman one day visited Mrs, 
Burivs.'and after he had seen all that she had to show 
— the l>edroom in which the poet died, his original por- 
trait by Nasmyth, his family-bible, with the names and 
birth-days of himself, his wife, and children, written on 
a blank-leaf by his own hand, and some o; her little 
trifles of the same nature — he proceeded to inueat that 
she would have the kindness to present him wi'h som*« 
relic of the poet, which he might carry away with hini, 
as a wonder, to show in his own country. " Indeed, 
Sir," said Mrs. Burns, " 1 have given away so many re- 
lics of Mr. Burns, that, to tell \,e the truth, I have not 
one left" — " Oh, you must surely have something," 
said the persevermg Saxon ; '* any thing will do— any 
little scrap of his handwriting — the least thing you 
please. All I want is Just a relic of the poet; and an^ 
thing, you know, will do for a relic." Some furthr 
altercat.'on took place, the lady reasserting that she hs- 
no relic to giv», and he as repeatedly renewing his V 
quest. At length, fairly tired out with the man's ita 
portiinities, Mrs. Bums said to him, with a smile, 
" 'Deed, Sir, unless ye tak mysell, then, 1 dinna see 
how you are to get what you want ; for, really, Fm the 
only relic o' him that I ken o'." The petuit>ner at cmcf 
wiu''i4rew his request. 



SONvJS. 



igr* 



In 1. ttes •' s\re test n!»'lof1y 

They ha I the charming Cbloe ; 

Ti!'. painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Outrivall'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, ^c 



I She, the fair sun ot all her sex-, 
Has blest my glorious day : 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



CHLORIS. 
Tune—" My Lodging it on the Cold Ground.' 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 

The primrose banks how fair ; 
The balmy gales awake the flowers, 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav' lock shuns the palace gay. 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfii' string 

la lordly Ipc'nit ha' ; 
The shepherd sv«-ps his simple reed, 

Blythe, in the birken sbaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours, 

B<^ leath the milk-white thorn ? 

"*^,e shw'herd, in the flow'ry glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo; 

The courtier tells a fairer tale, 
But is his heart as true ? 

V-<rse wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast of thine ; 
The courtier's gems may witness love. 

But 'tis na love like p 



\RINDA.« 

Claris' DA, tr. stress of my soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what daik cave jf frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light. 

The sun of ail his joy. 

We part, — but by these precious drops. 

That iili thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light nhall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 



• Th widow alludec . in the ] 



CONTENTIT WI* LITT .E. 

Tune — *' Lumps o' Puddin." 

CoNTENTiT wi' Httle, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang, 
Wi' a cogue o' gude swats and an auld Scottisk 



I whiles claw the elbow o* troublesome thocht ; 
But man is s. sod^er, and life is a faucht : 
My mirth and guile humour are-coin in my pouch, 
And my fretdom'a my lairdship nae monarch 
daur touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa , 
A nicht o' gude fellowship sowthers it a* : 
When at the blythe end o' our journey at last, 
Ti^ha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoite ">a hei 

way ; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let vae jaud gae ; 
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pxia. 
My warst word is — Welcome, and welcome, a- 

gain ! 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MI 
BREAST. 

rune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 

Come, let me take thee to my bres8^ 

And [jledge we ne'ei' shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn, as vilest dust, 

The wai Id's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own, 

That equal transports move her? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' a* thy charmi, 

I clasp my countless treasuue ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to shars^ 

Than sic a moment's pleasure ; 
And, by thy een sae bonnie blue, 

I vswear I'm tiiine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow. 

And break it ahali I aev«r. 



98 



BURNS' WORKS. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll be wed come o't what will ; 
Ont spake .1 dame in wrinkled eild, 

O* gude advisement comes nae ill. 

Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye k^n ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye. 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blythe's the blink o* Robie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o* him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught, 

The cannit'st gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

And wilfii' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the ylll. 

O gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor, Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and love brings peace and joy, 

W^hat mair hae queens upou a throne ? 



DAINTIE DAVIE. 

This song, tradition says, and the composi- 
tion itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. 
David Wiiriumson's getting the daughter of 
Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of 
dragoons were searching htr house to apprehend 
him for being an adherent to the solemn league 
and covenant. — The pious woman had put a 
lady's night-cap on him, and had laid him a-bed 
with her own daughter, and passed him to the 
soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed-fellow. 
— A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in 
Herd\ cnlltction, but the original song consists 
•)i five or six stanzas, and were their delicacy 



equal to their wit and humoui they would 
merit a place in any colltction. — Thenistetanu 



Being pursued by a dragoon, 
Withm my bed he was laid down ; 
And well I wat he was worth his rooni} 
For he was my daintie Davie. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Tvne—" Dainty Davie." 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay green birken bowers, 
And now come in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe. 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie i 
There FU spend the day wV yoUf 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal wateis round us fa*. 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes r(iund us blaw, 
A-wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me (,n, 8fc. 

WTien purple morning starts the har^ 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then through the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
Meet me on, 8fc. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, 
I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my dainty Davie. 
Meet me on, §*c. 



DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURB 

-" The Collier's Bonnie 1 



Dfxuded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle fair can give thee 

Is but a fairy treasuie — 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uncertain motion, 
They are bat types of woman. 

O ! art thou not ashamed 

To doat upon a feature -^ 
If man thou wouldst be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee ; 
Hold on till thou art mellow; 

And then to bed in glory 



i 


SONGS. 


199 


DOES HAUGHTY GAUL. 


DUNCAN GRAY. 




T^ne— •' Push about tte Jorum.' 


Dr. Blacklock informed me that he 


Ui 


AprU. 1795. 


often heard the tradition that this air was cum- 
posed by a carman in Glasgow, 


Dors hau2:hty Gaul invasion threat ? 






Then let the loons beware, Sir, 


DuNCAK Gray cam here to woo, 




There's wooden walls upon our seas, 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 




And volunteers on shore, Sir. 


On blythe yule night when we were foH} 




The N!th shall run to Corsincon,* 


Ila, ha, the wnoing o't. 




And Critfe. sink in S<)lway,t 


Maggie coost her Head fu' high, 




Ere we permit a forwgn foe 


Look'd asklent and unco skeigh ; 




On British grounii to rally ! 


Gait poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 




Fall de rail, §-c. 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 




let us not. like snarling tykes, 


Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray d : 




In wrangling be divided ; 


Ha, ha, 8fc. 




Till slap come in an unco loon 


Meg WHS deaf as Ailsa Craig, * 




And \vi' a rung decide it. 


Ha, ha, 8fc 




Be Britain still to Britain true, 


Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 




Amang oursels united ; 


Grat his e'en baith bleert and blin, 




For never but by British hands 


Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 




Maun British wrangs be righted. 


Ha, ha, §-c. 




FaU de rail, SfC. 


Time and chance are but a tide, 




The kettle o' the kirk and state, 


Ha, ha, §-c. 




Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 


Slighted love is sair to bide, 




But deil a foreign tinkler loon 


Ha, ha, 8fc. 




Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 


Shall I, like a fool, quo' he, 




Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 


For a haughty hizzie die ; 




And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 


She may gae to — France for me ! 




By heaven the sacrilegious dog 


Ha, ha, Sfc, 




Shall fuel be to boil it. 






FaU de rail, Sfc. 


How it comes let doctors tell. 
Ha, ha, SfC. 




The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 


Meg grew sick — as he grew heal. 




And the wretch his true-bo. n brother, 


Ha, ha, 8fc. 




Who would set the ?nob aboon the throne. 


Something in her bosom wrings, 




May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing " God save the king,*' 


For relief a sigh she brings ; 




And 0, her een, they spak sic thinga ! 




Shall hang is high's tl e sterple ; 


Ha, ha, Sfc- 




But, while we sing " God save the king,' 






We'll ne'er forget the people. 


Duncan was a lad o' grace. 




Full de rail, §-c. 


Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Duncan could na be her death, 






Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 






Now they're crouse and cauty baith^ 




DOWN THE BURN DAVIE. 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 




TERSE ADDED BY BURMS TO THE OLD SONO. 

As down the burn they to(Ji their way, 






EVAJN BANKS. 


And through the ii)»'ery dale, 






His cheek to hers he ait did lay, 


Slow spreads the gloom my soui ae8ire«i 




And love vvis aye tke tile ■ 


The sun fi'om India's shore retires ; 




With — Mary when shall we return, i 


To Evan banks, with temn rate ray, 




Such pleasure to rentw ? ! 


Home oi my youtn, it ieau» ine day. 




Quoth Mary, love, I like the burn, 


Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 




And aye will follow you. 


Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear j 
All, all my hopes of biiss reside, 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 




A high hill at the source of the Nith. 
*■ A well-known mountan at the mouth of the some 








■ 


«»»er. 


• A well-Rnown rock m the Frith of Clyde 




1 



2or 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And Srie, in simple beauty drest. 
Whose imas^e lives withiu my breast ; 
\^Tio trembling heard my piercing sigh, 
Aud long pursu'd me with her eye ! 
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
)ft in the vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
WT\ich sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings. 
All that on Evan's border springs? 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream, she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all tht wealth of India's coast 

Atone for years in absence lost ? 

Return, ye moments of delight. 

With richer treasures bless my sight ! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 

And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 

Nor more may aught ray steps divide 

Froic, that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



FAIR ELIZA. 



A GAELIC AIR. 



TuRV again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' hear: 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee . 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ! 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae swt-et smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

la the pride o' sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his ee, 
fCens tl e pleasure, feels the rapture 

That thy pifujeace gies to me. 



FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKi 
Tune-~" Rothicmurchie." 

Fairest maid on Devon blanks. 
Crystal Devon, ifiinding Devotiy 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou wert wont to do 

Fun. well thou knowest I love thee dear; 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear! 
O did not love exclaim, *' Forbear ! 
Nor use a faithful lover so." 
Fairest maid, &rc. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O let me share ; 
And by that beauteous self i HWear, 
No love but thine my heait shall know* 
Fairest maid, Sfc* 



FATE GAVE THE WORD 
Tune—" Finlayslon House." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierced my darling's heart: 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
My cruel hands the sapling drop*, 

In dust dishon()ur'<l laid ; 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravished young ; 
So I for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
O do thou kindly lay mc low 

With him 1 love at rest ! 



«^0R THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY 

My heart is sair, I dare nae tell. 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a vinter night 
For the sake of somebody. 

Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh- hey ! for somebody ! 



• These verses, and the letter enclosing them, ai* 
written in a character that marks the very foebk sUct 
of their author. Mr. Syitit- is of opinion that ho could 
not have b en in any (ianser of a jail at Dumfries, 
where certainly he had many tinn frieixis, nor undei 
any neces,sity o't imploring aid from Kdinburgh. But 
atxMvt this time his iT\ind l>eg;ui to be tt times unset- 
t,t>d, and the horrors ofa jai! (•frpetuallv liauntod hat 
:.3naguiatioii. He died on the 21st of this month. 



■ 


SONGS. 201 


I coultl range the world around, 


But the last throb that leaves my heart 


For the sake of somebody. 


While death stands victor by, 




That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 


Ye powers that smile on virtuous love. 


And thiue that latest sigh. * 


sweetly smile on somebody ! 




Frae ilka dang;er keep him free, 




And send me safe my somebody. 




Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 




GALA WATER. 


I wad do — what wad I not. 




Po the sake of somebody ! 


Tun*-" Gala Water. 




There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow Vae», 




That wander through the bluming heather , 
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 






Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 


FORLORN, MY LOVE. 




Tune—'* Let me in this ae night." 


But there is ane, a secret ane. 




Abune them a' I loe him better; 


Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 


And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 


Far, far from thee I wander here ; 


The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 


Far, far from thee, the fate severe 




At which I most repine, love. 


Although his daddie was nae laird, 


O wert thou love, but near me, 


And though I hae na mickle tocher } 


But near, near, nmr me ; 


Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 


How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 


We'll tent our flocks on Gala Water. 


And mingle sighs with mine, love. 






It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 


Around me scowls a wintry sky. 


That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; 


That bl ists each bud of hope and joy ; 


The bands and bliss o' mutual love. 


And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 


that's the chiefest vvarld's treasure ! 


Save in these arms of thine, love. 




O wert, 8fc. 
Cold, alter 'd friendship's cruel part, 






To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 


GLOOMY DECEMBER. 


Let me not break thy faithful h«art, 




And say tint fate is mine, love. 


Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 


6 wert, §-c. 


Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 




Sad was the parting chou makes me remember; 


But dreary tho' the moments fleet. 


Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair 


let me think we yet shall meet ! 


Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 


That only ray of solace sweet 


Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour 


Can un thy Chloris shine, iove. 


But the dire feeling, farewell for ever. 


wert, §-c. 


Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 




Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 
'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 




FROM THEE, ELIZA. 


Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 
Since my last hope and last comfort is gone 


Tmm— " Gilderoy." 


Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 




Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 


From thee, Eliza, I must go, 


For sad was the parting thoa makes me re- 


And from my native shore ; 


member, 


The cruel fates lietween us throw 


Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. 


A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide 
Between my love and me 




• Miss Miller of Mauchline, (probably the same 
lady whom the poet has felebrated in his catalogue of 


They never, never can divide 


tne beauties of that village— 


My heart and soul from thee. 


" Miss Miller is fine" ) 




afterwards Mrs. Templcton, was the heroine of thif 


Farewell, farewell. Elira dear, 


beautiful sone. 


The maid that I adore ! 




A. boding voice is in mine ear, 
We part to meet no more. 


• 




P3 





tosc 



BURNS' WORKS. 



C'PEEN GROW THE RASHES: 

A FRAOMENT. 

Green grow the rashes., O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er 1 spends 

Are spent amiang the lasses, O I 

There's nought but care on every ban', 
In every houi- that passes, O ; 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An* 'twere na for the lasses, O. 
Green grow, §*c. 

The warly race may riches chase. 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

^»o* though at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, Src. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'cK, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

In' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a gae tapsalteerie, O. 

Green grow, Sfc. 

For you so douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ; 

The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 
He dearly loved the lasses, O. 
Green grow, 8fc, 

Auld nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O ; 

Her 'prentice han* she tried on man, 
And then she made the lasses, O. 
Green grow, §fc. 



GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LA WIN. 

Tutu—" Gudewife, count the Lawin." 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night ; 
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light ; 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And blude-red wine's the rising sun. 

Then, gudewife, count the lawin. 

The lawin, the lawin. 

Then, gudewife, count the lawtHf 

And bring a coggie mair. 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple folk maun fecht and fen; 
P. at here we're a* in ae accord, 
I'Or ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then, gudewife, 8^c. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 

5 rut iioals the wounds o' care and doc' ; 



And pleasure is a wanton tuut — 

An' ye drink but deep, ye'U find him oUNk 

Then, gudewfe, count the lawin. 

The lawin, the lawin, 

Then, gudewife, count the lawin. 

And bring^s a coggie mair. 



HANDSOME NELL. 
Tune — *' I am a man unmarried 

O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And w iiilst that virtue warms my breM^ 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 
Tal lal de ral, §'c. 

x\s bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

Tal lal de ral, 8fe. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the ee. 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

Tal lal de ral, §-c. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and 8Weet» 

And what is best of a' 
Her reputation was complete, 

And fair without a flaw, 

Tal lal dc ral, §-c. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

Tal lal de ral, Sfc, 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart, 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

Tal lal de ral, Sfc, 

*Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 
Tal lal de ral, Sfc, 

It must be confessed that these lines give »< 
indication of the future genius of Burns ; bu 
he himself seems to have been fond of theft, 
probably from the recollections they excited. 



SONGS. 



20S 



HAD T A CAVE. 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar, 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
411 thy fond pliglited vows — fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er th-^ perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there. 

Compare this with the old crambo-clink, — to 
the same air — 

You R wciCome to Paxton, young Robin Adair, 
Your welcome, but asking, sweet Robin Adair. 

How does Johnnie INIackeral do? 

Aye, and Luke Gardener too? 

Come love me and never rue, 
Robin Adair. 



HIGHLAND HARRY. 

Mr ria.ry was a gallant gay ; 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain ; 
But now he's banish 'd far away, 
I'll never see him b.ick again. 
Oh, for him hack again ! 

Oh, fir him buck again ! 
I tend pie a' Knorkhaspie's land 
For Highland Harry back again. 

When A the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I sit me down, and greet my fill, 

And aye I wish him back again. 

Oh, for him back again ! SfC. 

Oh, were some villains hangit hie, 

And irKa body had their ain. 
Then I mirht see the joyfu' sicht, 

My Highlan<l Harry back again. 

Oh, fur him back again / 8fC, 

Sad was the d ly, and sad the hour, 

He left me in his native plain, 
And rush'd his mnch-wrong'd prince to join ; 

But, oh ! he'll ne'er come back again J 
Oh, for him back again J 8fc. 

Strons; was my Harry's arm in war, 
Unmatch'd in a' Culloden's plain ; 

But venge mce marks him for her ain— • 
I'll never see him back again. * 

Oh, for him back again ! §*c. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Katharine Ogie." 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams aroLud 

The Castle o' Montgomery ! * 
Green be your woods, and fair your flow rip 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there they langest tarry ! 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O* my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bJoom'd the gay green birk t 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
As, underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to ray bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was ray sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace* 

Our parting was fu* tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder : 
But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance. 

That dwelt on me sae kindly; 
And innuld'ring now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core. 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



• The first three verses of this song, excepting the 
chorus, are by Hums. The air to which it is sung, is 
the H.^hiander's Farewell to Ireland, with some alter- 
«tions, sung slowly. 



HER FLOWING LOCKS: 

A FRAGMENT. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her , 

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou ! 

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



• Coilsfield House, rear Mauchline ; but poetican) 
titled as above, on account of the oame of the pz» 
prietor. 



201 



BURNS' WORKS. 



HERE'S. A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST 
FRIEND. 

.HIere's, a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad ye wish for inair, man f 
Wlia kens, before his life may end. 

What his share may be of care, man. 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man : — ■ 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not' ay when sought, man. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM 
THAT'S AWA. 

PATRIOTIC U NFINISHED. 

H2re's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, 

May never gude luck be their fa' ! 

It's gude to be merry and wise. 

It's glide to be honest and true, 

It's gude to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide by the buflf and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, 

Altho' that his band be sraa'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil • 

Here's a Lca!..h to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug of the law ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

be heard, 
But they wham the truth would indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain ■'vorth 

gowd, 
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 



Thou art svreet as the smile when kind Invert 

meet, 
And soft as their parting tear, Jessie ' 

Although thou maun never be mine— 
Although even hope is denied — 

*Tis sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside, Jessie ! 

I mourn through the gay gaudy day, 
As hopeless I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then 1 am lock'd in thy arms, Jessie 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 
But why urge the tender confession, 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessie " 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO ANE 1 LO'E 
DEAR. 

Tune—" Here's a Health to- them tfcafs awa." 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear — 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONa. 

Tune—'* John Anderson my ja" 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus niea, 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries ; 
'Till of escape despairing. 

No shelter or retvjtt, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THK 
NIGHT. 

Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen 

How lang and dreary is the night. 

When I am frae my dearie • 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

For, oh, her lanehj nights are lung^ 
And, oh, her dreams are eerie, 

And, oh, her widowed heart is sair. 
That's absent frae her dearie. 



♦ Written upon Miss Lewars, now Mrs, Thomson 
of Dumfries; a true friend and a great favourite o 
the poet, and, at his death, one of the most syrap* 
thizing friends of his afflicted widow. 



SONGS. 



205 



When I think oii the lightsome days 
I spent wi" thee, my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I but be eerie ? 
For, oh, §*c. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

T'hj joyless day how dreary ! 
It wasaa sae ye glinted by, 

When 1 was wi' my dearie. 
For, oh, Sfc. 



I AM A SON OF MARS. 
TVtu?— " Soldier's Joy." 

I AM son of Mars who have been in maty 

wars, 

And show my cuts and sears wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a 

trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of 

the drum. 

Xa/ de daudle, §*c. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath 'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of 

Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, 
And the IVIoro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. 

JLal de daudle, §'c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

b-*n'nes, 

And there T left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 

I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
JLal de daudle, Src. 

And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm 

and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my 

callet. 
As when I U3*d in scarlet to follow a drum. 
Lai de daudle, Sfc. 

What tho* with hoary locks, I must stand the 

winter shocks, 
Beneath the w^oods and rocks often times for a 

home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 
bottle tell, 
could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the 
drum. 

Lai de daudle, ^e. 



I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS 
WERE SPRINGKVG. 

These two stanzas I composed wher I wat 
seventeen, and are among the oldest of my print- 
ed pieces. 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing, 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro* the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' tickle fortune has deceiv'd me. 

She promis'd fair, and perforni'd but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

1 bear a heart shall support me still. 



['LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOUM 



TMno— " rU i 



nae mair to yon towib" 



T'li, aye ca' in by yon toun. 

And by yon garden green again ; ^ 

I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall gasa 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she, my fairest faithfu' lass ; 
And stowlins we shall meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree, 

When trystin time draws near again j 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she's doubly dear again, 

I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 

And by yon garden green again ; 

I'll aye ca' in by yon toun, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 



I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARR'k jif. 

The chorus is old : — the rest of it, such u ^ 
is, is mine. 

I'm my mammy's ae bairn, 

Wi' unco folk, I weary, Sir ; 
And lying in a man's bed, 

I'm fley'd wad mak me irie. Sir. 
I'm o'er young, Tm oer yourg, 
Tm o'er young to marry vet.- 



1 


«Ub BURNS' 


WORKb. 


Im o'er young, twad h« a tin 


If ye wad woo me, love, 


To tah *.e frae my i^mmy yet. 


Wha can espy thee ? 




I m far aboon fortune, love> 


Hallowmas is jome and gane, 


When i am by thee. 


The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; 




And you and I in ae bed, 


I come from my chamber 


In trowth I darena venture, Sir. 


When the moon's glowing ; 


Tm o'er young, Sf-c. 


I walk by the streamlet 




'Mang the broom flowing. 


My minnie coft me a new gown, 


The bright moon and stars, lovte— 


The kiik maun hae the gracing o*t ; 


None else espy me ; 


War I to lie wi* you, kind Sir, 


And if ye wad win my love. 


I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o*t. 


Jamie, come try me. 


rm o'er yoimg, Sfc. 
Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 






Blaws thro* the leafless tiramer, Sir ; 




But should ye come this gate again, 


JOCKIE'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS 


I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 




I'm o'er young, S^c. 


Jogkie's ta'en the parting kiss, 




Ower the mountains he is gane ; 




And with him is a' my bliss ; 

Nought but griefs wi' me remain. 






Spare my love, ye winds that blaw. 


IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 


Plashy sleets, and beating rain ! 




Spare my love, thou feathery snaw, 


These were originally English verses: — I 


Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 


gave them their Scotch dress. 




When the shades of evening creep 


It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 


Ower the day's fair gladsome ee, 


Nor shape that I admire. 


Sound and safely may he sleep, 


Altho* thy beauty and thy grace 


Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! 


Might weel awauk desire. 


He will think on her he loves. 


Something in ilka part o' thee 


Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 


To praise, to love, I find ; 


For, where'er he distant roves. 


Pat dear as is thy form to me, 


Jockie's heart is still at hame. 


Still dearer is thy mind. 
Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, 






Nor stronger in my breast, 


JOHN BARLEYCCRPi.* 


Than, if I canna mak thee sae. 




At least to see thee blest. 


A BALLAD. 


Content am I, if heaven shall give 




But happiness to thee : 


There were three kings into the east. 


And as wi* thee I'd wish to live, 


Three kings both great and high. 


For thee I'd bear to die. 


An* they hae sworn a solemn oath 




John Barleycorn should die. 
They took a plough and plough'd him dswn^ 






Put clods upon his head. 


JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 


And they hae sworn a solemn oath 




John Barleycorn was d«»«''- 


Jamie, come try me, 




Jamie, come try me ; 


But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 


If ye wad win my lovie, 


And show'rs began to fall , 


Can ye na try me ? 


John Barleycorn got up again. 


If ye should ask my love. 


And sore surpris'd them all. 


Could 1 deny thee ? 




If ye wad win my love. 


The sultry suns of summer came, 


lamie, come try me. 


And he grew thick and strong. 




His head weel arm*d wi' pointed spears, 


My heart leaps light, my love. 


That no one should him wrong. 


When ye come nigh me ; 






If I had wings, my love, 


• This is partly composed on the plan of an <^ 
•ODg Known by the same name. 


Think na I'd fly thee. 


i 



SONGS. 



2(r 



Ye'll blear out a' your een, John, awt why 
should you do so, 

Gang sooner to your bed at e*en, John Aadersoa, 
my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first 

began 
To try her canny hand, John, her raaster-wc:k 

was man ; 
And you amang them a', John, sue trig fra* 

tap to toe. 
She proved to be nae journey-work, John An 

derson, my «>. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my firet 
conceit, 

And ye na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' y» 
trim and neat ; 

Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never 
think ye so. 

But I think ye're ave the same to me, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our 

bairns' bairns. 
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy 

in your arms. 
And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye .. 

ne'er say no, 
Tho' the days are gane, that we have seen, Joht 

Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasur* 
does it gie 

To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween 
you and me, 

And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, 

Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were 

first acquaint. 
Your locks were like the raven, your bonnia 

brow was brent. 
But now your head's turned bald, John, your 

locks are like the snaw, 
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Ander* 

son, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, Joh», frae year to yea. 
we've past, 

And soon that year maun come, John, will 
bring us to our last : 

But let nae that aiTright us, John, our hearts 
were ne'er our foe, 

While in innocent delight we lived, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

Ji>hn Anderson, my jo, John, we clam the hil 
thegither. 
To rise so soon in the morning, anr sit up v ' And mony a canty day, JoLn, we've had wi 
late at e en, ane anither • 



The sober autumn enter'd mild, 
Wlien he grew wan and pale ; 

V's bendirig joints and drooping head 
Show'd lie began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta*e» a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart. 

Like a rogue for forger ie. 

They laid him down upon his back. 

And cudgel I'd him full sore ; 
Tliey hung him up before the storm, 

And tum'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim. 
They heaved in Johc Barleycorn, 

There let him sink oi swim. 

I'hey laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe. 
And still as signs of life appear'd. 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller used him worst of all, 
• For he crush'd him between two stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood 
And drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

^ohn Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise. 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy; 
Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho* the tear were in her eye. 

Then let as toa«t John Barleycorn 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'ci fai in old Scotland ! 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what 
you mean, 



208 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in 

hand we'll go, 
And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John An- 

deison. niy jo. 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 

Tune — " The Lothian Lassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam* down the lang 
glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men : 
The deuce gae wi' him to believe me, believe 

me, 
The deuce gae wi' him to believe me ! 

He spak' o* the darts o' my bonnie black een. 
And vow'd for my love he was deein'. 

I said he micht dee when he liked for Jean ; 
The guid forgi'e me for leein', for leein*, 
The guid forgi'e me for leein' ! 

A weel-stockit mailin*, himsell for the laird. 
And marriage aflf-hand, were his proffer. 

I never loot on that I ke<nn'd it or cared ; 
But thocht I might hae a waur offer, waur 

offer, 
But thought I might hae a waur offer. 

But, what wad ye think, in a fortnicht or less, — 
The deil's in his taste to gang near her ! — 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess — 
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I couU bear her, 

could bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her ! 

But a' the neist week, as I fretted wi* care, 
I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock ; 

And wha but my braw fickle wooer was there f 
Wha glowr'd as he had seen a warlock, a 

warlock, 
Wha glowr'd as he had seen a warlock. 

Out ower my left shouther I gi'ed him a blink, 
Lest neebors micht say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink. 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I speir'd for my cousin^ fou couthie and sweet, 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin' .' 
And how my auld shoon fitted her shauchled 
feet?* 
Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin*, a- 

swearin', 
Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin*. 



* In Scotland, when a cast-off lover pays his ad- 
dresses to a new mistress, that new mi3tress is said to 
have got the auld slioon (old shoes) of the former one. 
Here the metaphor is made to carry an extremely in- 
genious sarcasm at the clumsiness of "he new mistress's 
person. 



He begged, for gudesake ! T wad be his xriSb^ 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; 

Sae, e'en to preserve the pair body ia life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to>aC0l& 

row, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



LASSIE Wr THE LINT- WHITE LOCKg 
Tune—" Rothiemurehus' Rant." 

Lassie wV the lint white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wV me tend the Jlocks 9 

Wilt thou be my dearie, O ? 

Now Nature cleads the flowery lea, 
And a* is young and sweet like thee, 
O, wilt thou share its joys wi* me. 
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 
Lassie voi\ ^c. 

And when the welcome simmer shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower^ 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', ^c. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way, 
Through yellow-waving fields we'U stray. 
And talk o' love, my dearie, O. 
Lassie, wi\ 8fc. 

And whea the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnignt rest, 
Enclasped to my faithiul breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 
Lansie, wi\ 8fc. 



LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, LASS 

Tune—" O lay the loof in mine, laM." 

O LAY thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
x\nd swear on thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A slave to love's unbounded sway. 
He aft has wrought me muckle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 
Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mony a lass has broke my rest^ 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breait» 
For ever to remain. 



SONGS. 



t&9 



tt NOT WOIVIAN E'ER CO:\rPLAIN. 
Tune—" Duncan Gray." 

L«T not woman e'er complain 

Of inronstaiicy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove. 

F>ook abroad through nature's range, 
Nature's miirhty law is change; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 

Man should, then, a monster prove? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean N el)b, and ocean's flow. 
Sun and moon but set to rise ; 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why, then, ask of silly man, 
To oppose great nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can, 
You can l)e no more, you know. 



LONG, LONG THE NIGHT 
JVtne— " Aye wakin'." 

Long, long the night. 

Heavy comes the morroWy 

While my soul's delight. 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care. 

Can 1 cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 
Long, §-c. 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror 
Slumber e'en I dread, 

Every dream is horror 
Long, Sfc. 

Hear me, pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught ehe of mine, 

But my Chloris spate me ! 
Long, Sfc. 



LOGAN BRAES. 
Logan Water.' 



0, LoGAK sweeetly didst thou glide, 
rbat day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sins;, ne hae o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thf flowery banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark an drear, 
While my dear lad maun fiice his faes. 
Fit, far frae me and Logan braea. 



Again the merry month o' May, 

Has made our hills and valleys gay; 

The binU lejoice in leafy bowers, 

The bee.- luun round the breathing flowflGl c 

BIythe morning lifts his rosy eye. 

And evening's tears are tears of joy : 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn buah» 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush: 
Her faith fu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile ; 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
Wliile Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o* state. 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry;* 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! 



LORD GREGORY. 

Oh, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. 

And loud the tempests roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks rhy tower. 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door"! 

An exile frae her father's ha*, 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the ^itw 

By bonnie Irvine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin lore 

I lang lang had denied ? 

How aften didst thou pledge the vow, 

Thou wad for aye be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsell sae true. 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast ! 
Thou dart of heaven that flashes by. 

Oh, wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above 
Your willing victim see ; 



• Originally, 



Ye mind na 'mid your cruel jovs.. 
1 he widow** tears, the orphu"'s^i;ri« 



9H 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But spare ani. pardon my false love 
His wrongs to heaveu and me ! * 



LINFS ON LORD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Rol)in, alias Burns, 

Octol)er twenty-third, 
A ne'er -to-l)e-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled f up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at drn^Mena^vriters' \ feasts, 
Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi* lev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum. 
When mia^hty Sqiiireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a' 

As I look o'er a sonnet. 

But O for Hogarth's magic power ! 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr,§ 

And how he stared and stammer'd, 
Whan goavan || as if led wi' brariks,^ 
An* stiiinpnn on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 



I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his Loidship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle |)ride, the lordly state 

Tlie arrogant assuming ; 
The fieiit a pilde, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceibrtn to meet with unconcern, 

One rank as well's another ; 
Nae honti-t worthy man need care, 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 

These lines will be read with no common in- 
terest by all who remember the unaffected sim- 



* This song was composed upon the subject of tke 
well-known and verv' beautiful ballad, entitled '• The 
Lass of Loc'hroyan,"" 

f Clambered. % Attorneys. 

t Frightened stare. || Walking stupidly. 

H A kind of bridle. 



plicity of appearance, the sweetness of count©. 
nance and manners, and the unsusp<>cting fjene* 
volence of heart, of Basil, Lord Daer. — T* was t 
younger brother of his who, as Earl of Sejkirk, 
became so well known as the advocate of /olua- 
tary emigration, and who settled the colony 
upon the Red River. 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

Tune — " Macphei son's RanU' 

Fareweil, ye prisons dark arid strong. 

The wretch's destinie ! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows tiee! 

Sae ranting/y, sue wantonly, 

Sae danton/y gaed he. 
He play'd a spring, and danced it romndi 
Seneath the gallows tree ! 

Oh, what is death, but parting breath? 

On mony a bluidy plain 
I've daur'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again. 

Sae rantingly, ^c. 

Untie these bands frae aff my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's nae man in a' Scotland 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantivgly, Sfc. 

I've lived a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie ; 
It burns my heart I must depart, 

And not avenged be. 

Sae rantiyigly, Sfc. 

Now fareweil, light, thou sunshine brightf 

And all brne.ith the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name. 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, Sfc. 



MARIA'S DWELLING. 
Tune—" The last timr I cam o'er the Mo«w,* 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 

Around Maria's dwelling ! 
Ah cruel mem'ry ! spare the thrc es 

Within my bosom swelling : 
Condemn 'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And still in secret languish ; 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein. 

Yet dare not speek my anguish. 

The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, 
I fain my crime would cover : 



SONGS. 



211 



Tbe bursting sigh, th* nnweeting groan 

Betray the hopeless lover. 
I know my doom must l)e despair, 

Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
But oh, Maria, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy tongue I heard. 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
( saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'o, 

'Till fears no more had saved me. 
rhe unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing; 
'Mid circling horrors yields at last 

To overwhelming ruin. 



MARK YONDER POMP. 



Tni 



Deil tak' the wars." 



Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compared with real passion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are their showy treasures ? 

What are their noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art. 

The polish'd jewel's IfLize, 

May draw the wond'ring gaze. 

And courtly grandeur bright. 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

O then the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming, 
In Love's deli^^htful fetters she chains the wil- 
ling soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown. 

Even A v' rice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love'a raptures roll. 



To thee my fancy took its wing— 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 

Though this was fair, aad that was braw 
And you the toast o' a' the town, 

I sigh'd, and said amang them a*, 
Ye are na Mary Morison. 

O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thocht ungentle canna be 

The thocht of Mary Morison. 



MARY MORISON. 
Tune — " Bide ye yet." 

O, Mart, at thy window be ; 

It is the wished, the trysted hoar: 
Those smiles and glance^ let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor. 
Hv)W blythely wad I byde the stoure, 

A weary slave fiae Hun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The Icv'v Mary Morison ! 

Yestreen, when to the stented string 
The dance gaed through the lichtit ha*. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

Tune—" O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack ' 

O, KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An* ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller. 
And broiien the heart o' the barley miller. 

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laiid was a vvuddiefu* bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid fallow, and ta'en the churl. 

The nuller he hecht her a heart leal and loving: 
The laird did address her wi' matter mair mo- 
ving ; 
A fine p icing-horse wi* a clear-chain'd bridle, 
A whip by her sicfe, and a bonny side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it's sae prevailing ; 
And 'vae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin' ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's patle. 
But, Gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

I COMPOSED these verses out of compliment 
to a Mrs. M 'Lachlan, whose husband is an o{ 
ficer in the East Indies. 

Tune — " Drumion Dubh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean. 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying heaven in warm devotion^ 
For his weal where*er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
Whispring spirits round my pillo\l^, 

Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow lever woundedf 
Ye who never shed a tear, 



•M9. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Care-untrniiW»>d, joy -surrounded, 
'Irdudy day to you is dear. 

GtMitle niglit, do thou befriend me, 
Downy sleep the curtain draw ; 

Spirits kind, again attend me, 
Talk of him that's far awa ! 



MY BONNIE MARY. 

Tins air is Oswald's ; the first half-stanza 
if the song is old, the rest mine.* 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind bliws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, 

It's ieaviug thee, my bonnie Mary. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here — 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 

snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods , 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer. 
Chasing the vvild deer and following the roe — 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S G ^IRS 
UPON'T. 

My lady's gown there's gairs upon't, 
And govrden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks muckle mair upon*t. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane, 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane*. 

By Colin's cottage lies his game. 

If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red. 
And kith and kin o' Cassilis' blude, 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gude 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 

Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks through the heather paM • 
There wons auld Colin's bonny lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns : 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims* 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fiincy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that man lo'es the best, 
O that's the lass to mak him blest. 



• This song, which Buttis here acknowledges to be 
bis own, was first introduced by him in a letter to 
Mrs. Dunlop, as two old stanzas. 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Twie^" There'll never be peace till Jamie 
hame.* 



Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays. 
And listens the lambkins that bleat ower th« 

braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodland* 

adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw ! 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou laverock, that springs frae the dewa of 
the lawn. 

The shepherd to "surarn of the grey-breaking 
i dawn ; 

And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa' ; 
i Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey^ 
'■ And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay: 
'• The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 

Alane can delight me — my Nannie's awa. 



SONGS. 



21S 



MY NANNIE, O. 
Tune—*' My Nan»^e, O." 

Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows, 

Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 
The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 

And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 
The westland wind blaws loud an' shrill ; 

1 he night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steaJ, 

An* owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; 

Nd' artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 
Her face is fair, her heart is true. 

As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 
The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 
But what care I how few they be, 

I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 
My riches a' 's my penny-fee, 

An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 

My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 

His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 
But I'm as blythe that hands his plough, 

An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 
G)me weel, come woe, I care na by, 

I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, O ; 
Nae ither care in life hae I, 

But Uve, an' love my Nannie, O. 



MY PEGGY'S FACE. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
The frost of Hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy '•! mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind : 
I lovs my Peggy's angel air. 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art. 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway. 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thiill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purfjose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
Thetit' are ail mmortal charms. 



MY SODGER LADDIE, 



THK SOLDIER S DOXY S SOI« IN 

BEGGARS." 



THE JOLLl 



Tune—" Sodger Laddie." 

I OWCE was a maid, tho' I canna tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,— - 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lul. Sec. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade , 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy. 
Transported I w*us with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, Sfc. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church. 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, §•©. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to t-he fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, ^c. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cuiminghim fair ; 
His rag regimental they flutter'd >o gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, 8fc. 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the g.ase 

steady. 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, 6fc. 



MY SPOUSE NANCIE. 
Tune — " My Jo, Janet." 

Husband, husband, cease your strife^ 
Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 

Though I am your wedded wife, 
Yet I'm not your slave, Sir. 

One of two must still obey, 

Naocie, Nancie ; 
Is it man or woman, say. 

My spouse Nancie ? 

If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll de.sert my sovereign lord, 

And 80 good-bye allegiaao» 

Sad will I be so bereft, 
Niincie, Nancie ; 



8U 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Vet \% try to mal e a snift, 
My spouse Nancie. 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it ; 
When you lay ine in the dust, 

Think — think how you will bear it. 

I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancie, Nancie, 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse Nancie. 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead, 
Still I'll try to daunt you; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

ni wed another like my dear 

Nancie, Nancie ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse Nancie I 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my hive o' my kin ; 
Biit little thinks my luve I ken brawlie. 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's d for the apple he'll miurish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee, 
Mv laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 

He cauna hae iuve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's aii arte penny. 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an' ye be crafty, I am cuiinin, 

Sae ye wi' anither yi>ur fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the tiauiier o' y(>n rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ve'll crack your ciedit wi' mae nor me. 



IIY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING, 
My wife's a wanton wee thing." 



She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine ! 

1 never saw a fairer, 
i never loo'd a dearer; 
And neist my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 



The warld's wrack we share 9*% 
The warstle and the care o't ". 
W' her I'll blythely bear it. 
And think my lot divine. 



NaE-BODY. 

I HAK a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' nae-body ; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to nae-body; 
I hae naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae nae-body, 

I am nae-body's lord, 

I'll be slave *o nae-body ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
rii tak dunts frae nae-bo<fy 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for nae body ; 

If nae-body care for me, 
I'll care for nae-body. 



NANCY. 



Thine ano I, my faithful faitj 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to thiob and languish ; 

Tho' despair had wrung its core^ 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips. 
Rich with balmy treasure . 

Turn away thine eyes of love. 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Lc"ve's the cloudless summer sun 

Fature gay adorning. 



NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GRO\B 

IN GREEN. 

Now spring has clad the grove m greeUj 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers . 



f " 


1 1 . — — — 

SONGS. 2U 


While ilka thing in nature join 


NOW WESTLIN' WINDS. 


Theii sorrows to forego, 
why thus all aloue are mine 




Tune—" I had a horse, I had nae nudr." 


The weaiy steps of woe ! 


Now westlin* winds, and slaughtering guns, 




Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The mu rcock springs, on whirring wings. 


The trout within yon wimpling hurt: 


Glides swift, a silver dart, 


Amang the blooming heather. 


And safe beneath the shady thorn 


Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 


Defies the angler's art ; 


Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shine's bright, when I rove a 


My life was ance that careless stream. 


That wanton trout was I ; 


night. 
To muse upon my charmer. 


But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 


Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 




The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 


The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. 


The plover loves the mountains ; 


In yonder cliff that grdws, 


The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 


Which save the linnet's flight, I wot, 


The soaring hern the fountains. 


Nae ruder visit knows, 


Through lofty groves the cushat roves, 


Was mine ; till love has o'er me pa&t, 


The path of man to shun it ; 


And blighted a* my bloom, 


The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 


And now beneath the withering blast, 


The spreading thorn the linnet. 


My youth and joy consume. 






Thus every kind their pleasure find, 


The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 


The savage and the tender ; 


And climbs the eirly sky. 


Some social join, and leagues combine; 


Winnowing blythe hei dewy wings 


Some solitary wander : 


In morning's rosy eye ; 


Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 


As little reckt I sorrow's power, 


Tyrannic man's dominion ; 


Until the flowery snare 


The sportman's joy, the murdering ciy, 


0' witching love, in luckless hour, 


The flutt'ring, gory pinion. 


Made me the thrall o' care. 






But, Peggy dear, the evening's cleai, 


had my fate been Greenland's snows, 

Cr Afric's burning zune, 
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, 


Thick flies the skimming swallovsr ; 


The f-ky is Idue, the fields in view, 


All fading green and yellow : 


So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair," 
That tongue his woes can tell ! 


Come let us stray our gladsome way, 


And view the charms of nature ; 


The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 


Within whase bosom, save despair, 


And evt'ry hap,>y creature. 


Nae kmder spirits dwell. 




We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 




Till the silent moon «hine clearly ; 




I'll grasp thy \\'aist, and fondly press't, 






And swoai- 1 luve thee dearly. 


NOW BANK AND BRAE ARE CLAD 


Not vt'i n il showers to budding flowers. 
Not autiimn to the farmer, 


IN GREEN. 




So dear can be as thou to me. 


Now bank and brae are clad in green 


My fair, my lovely chai mer ! 


An* scatter'd cowslips sweetly sprir^j. 




By Girvau's fiiry haunted stream 






The birdies flit on wanton wing. 




Tc Cassii'is' banks when e'ening ta's, 


OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN 


Thei ; ivi" my Mary let ine flee, 


BLAW. 


There catch her ilka glance of love 




The 'oonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! 


Tune--" Miss Admiral Gordon's StrathsDey." 




I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to 
Mrs. Bui MS. It was during the honey-moon.. 


I'he child wha boiists o' warld's walth. 


Is att».'n laird o' meikle care ; 


But M iry she is a' my ain, 


Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 


Ah, fortune canna gie me mair! 


I dearly like the west, 


rhi'ii let me ran^e by Cassillis' banks. 


For there the bonnie lassie lives, 


Wi' hi-r liie la»i'- dear to me, 


The lass that I loe best : 


\n<l catch iior iika giance o' lore 


Tho' wild woods grow, and rivers rowTji 


The bonoie biiak o Mary's Be 


Wi' mony a liill betwett. 


1 



% 


216 BURNS' WORKS 


Baith day and nighl my fancy's flight 


Some sair o* comfort still at last, 


Is ever wi' my Jean. 


Wlien a' thir days are dune, maa»« 




My pains o' hell on earth is past, 


I 8«e her in the dewy flow'r, 


I'm sure o' heaven aboon, man. 


Sae lovely, sweet, and fair ; 


0, ay my wife, Sfc. 


I hear her voice in ilka bird, 




Wi music charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs, 






By fountain, shaw, or green. 




Nor yet a bo:anie bird that sings, 


O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER 


But minds me o* my Jean. 






O BONNIE was yon rosy brier, 


Upon the banks o' flowmg Clyde 

The lasses busk them briw ; 
But when their best they hae put on, 


That blooms sae fir frae haunt o' anan ; 
And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear 
It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 


My Jeanie dings them a* ; 
In hamely weeds she far exceeds 

The fairest o' the town ; 
Baith sage and gay confeee it sae, 

Tho' drest in russet gown. 


Yon rosebuds in the morning dew 

How pure, amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 




All in its rude and prickly bower. 


The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dam, 


That crimson rose, how sweet and fair 


Mair harmless canna be ; 


But love is far a sweeter flower 


She has iiae faut, (if sic ye ca't). 


Amid life's thorny path o' care. 


Except her love for me : 




The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue. 


The pathless wild, and wimpling burn^ 


Is like her shining een ; 


Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; 


In shape and air, nane can compare 


And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn. 


Wi' my sweet lovely Jean. 


Its joys and giiefs aUke resign. 


hlaw, ye westlin winds, blaw safk 
Amang the leafy trees; 






Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, 




Brini^ hame the laden bees, 


0, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM 


And bring the lassie back to me 


Tune—" The Moudiewort." 


That's aye sae neat and clean ; 




Ae blink o' ber wad banish care, 


An* 0, for ane and twenty, Tarn I 


Sae lovely is my Jean. 


An hey, sweet ane and twenty, TamI 




rU learn my kin a rattling sang. 


What sighs and vows amang the knowes. 


An' I saw ane and twenty. Tarn! 


Hae past atween us twa ! 




How fain to meet, how wae to part 


They snooi me sair, and hand me down, 


That day she gae<i awa ! 


And gar me look like Bluntie, Tarn ! 


The powers aboon can only ken, 


But three short years will soon wheel roon*} 


To whom the heart is seen. 


4nd then comes ane and twenty, Tarn I 


That nane can be sae dear to me 


An 0,for,^c. 


As my sweet loveiy Jean. 






A gleib o* Ian', a claut o' gear. 




Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 




At kith or kin I need n-a' spier, 




An* I saw aue and twenty, Tam. 


O, AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 


An' 0,for, §-c. 


Tune—" O, ay my Wife she dang me." 


They'll hae me wed a wealthy coot. 


0, ay my wife she dnng nie. 
And aft my wife she bunged me / 


Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tam ; 


But hears't thou, laddie, there's my loe^ 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 


If ye gie a wnman a' her will, 


An' Oyfor,^c, 


Gude faith, she'll soon oweryang y» 


On peace and rest my mind was bent, 




And, fool I was, I married • 




But never honest man's intent 




As cursedly miscarried ! 




0, ay my wife, §fc. 




J 





SONGa 2ii 


Off, GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED 


They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 


ROSF. 


And then you're prey for Rob MossgieL 


Tunt—" Hughie Graham." 


Sing tal, lal, lay. 


Oh, fin my love were yon red rose 


Beware a tongue that*s smoothly hung ; 


That grows upon the custle wa*, 


A heart that warmly seeks to feel ; 


And I my--ell a tl ap o' dew, 


That feeling heart but acts a part. 


Into her bonnie breast to fa* ! 


'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 


Oh, there, beyond expression blest, 


Sing tal, lal, lay. 


I'd feast on beauty a' the nicht ; 




Seated on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 


The frank address, the soft caress, 


Till fleyed awa by Phoebus* licht. 


Are worse than poison'd darts of stedL 


> 


The frank address, and politesse. 


ADDITIONAL STANZA BY BURNS. 


Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel, 




Sing tal, lal, lay. 


0, WERE my love yon lilac fair, 




Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 
And I a bird to shelter there, 






When wearied on my little wing; 
How I wad mourn when it was torn 




LET ME IN THIS AE NIOHl 


By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 


Tune-^" Let me in this ae night." 


How I wad sing on wanton wing, 




When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. 


LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet, 




Or art thou wakin, I would wit. 




For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 






let me in this ae night , 


OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD 


This ae, ae, ae night, 


BLAST. 


For pity's sake this ae nighty 




O rise and let me in, jo. 


Oh, wen thou in the cauld blast, 




On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My pliidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 


Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet. 


Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet, 
Tak pity on my weary feet. 


Or did misfortune's bitter storms 


And shield me frae the rain, jo. 


Around thee blaw, around thee blaw. 


let me in, ^c. 


Thy bieid should be my bosom, 
To share it a*, to share -it a*. 




The bitter blast that round me blaws 




Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 


Or were 1 in the wildest waste. 


The cauldness o' thy heart's the cauw 


Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 


Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 


The desert were a paradise. 


let me in, ^c. 


If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 




Or were I monarch of the globe, 


IIER ANSWER. 


With thee to reign, with thee to reign; 




The brightest je»vel in my crown 


TELL nae me o' wind and rain. 


Wad be my queen, wad be ray queen. 


Upbraid nae me wi' cauld disdain. 




Gae back the road ye cam again, 




I winna let you in, jo. 

/ tell you now this ae nighty 






This ae ae, ae night ; 


LEAVE NOVELLES, YE MAUCHLINE 


And unce "or a\ this ae night i 


BELLES. 


I winn. let you in, Jo. 


A rRAGMENT 


The snellest blast at mirkest hours, 


Tune—" Donald Blue." 


That round the pathless wand rer poun^ 




Is nought to what poor she endures 


0*LKAVE novelles, ye Mauchline belles, 


That's trusted faithles^! man, jo. 


Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 


/ tell you now, Src, 


Such witchiiig books are bailed hooku, 




For rakish rook- like Rob AIossgieL 


The sweetest flower that deck'*] the xomdt 


Siny tul, lal, lay. 


Now trodden like the vilest weed : 




Let simple maid the lesson read, 


Your fine T«)m Jones and (irandiwns. 


The weird may be her aln, jo 


They make your youthful fancies reel, 


/ teU you now, jpc. 


1 



218 



BTJRNS WORKS. 



The biid that charm'd his suratner-day 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
jfit witless, trusting woman i-ay 
How aft her fafe's the sam?, jo. 
I fell you now, ^c. 



O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 

O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has 

been, 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the 

wood sae green, 
And a* to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year. 

And I will pu' the pink, the omhiein o' my dear, 

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

without a peer ; 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 

in view. 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie 

mou ; 
The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging 

blue. 
Ana a to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the li'v i*^ is fair. 
And in her lovely Ijo'^om I'M place rlie lily there ; 
The daisy's for viiiiplicity .irui lu'-.tlf cted air, 
And a' to b(! a posie ro my ;iin dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

grey. 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 

day. 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna 

tak away ; 
And a* to Ite a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star 

is near, 
And the diamond dr;;j)s o" dew shall be her een 

sae clear ; 
The violet's for modest-y wTiirh weel she fa's to 

wear ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain <!ear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' 

luve, 
Aad I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by 

a' above. 
That to my latest dnuight o' life the band shall 

ne'er remuvo. 
And Ciis will be % posie to m ain dear May. 



O MAY, THY MOKW 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
As the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine. 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I darna name, 
Bnt I will aye remember. 
And dear, §-c. 

And here's to them, that like oursel, 
Can push about the jorum ; 

AndJiere's to them that wish us weel, 
JV'^y a' that's gude watch o'er theai ; 

And here's to them we darna tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum, 
And eU to, Sfc. 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS THERE L1VE8 
A LASS.* 

Tune—" If he be a butcher neat and trim.'* 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 
Could I describe her shape and mien -, 

The graces of her weelfai'd face, 

And the glancin* of her sparklin' e'en. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen. 

When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn j 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 

That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 

With flow'rs so white and leaves so greei. 

When purest in the dewy morn 

An' she's twa glancin' spaiklin' e'e . 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain side at e'en* 

When flow'r- reviving rains are past ; 
An* she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 



* 1 his song was an early production, .i wa» re. 
covered from the oral communication of a lady resid- 
ing at Glasgow whom the Bard in early life affection 
ately adcnirad 



SONGS. 



215 



Her voice s rtke the ev'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklia* e'en. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 

That sunny walls from boreas screen, . 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising step ; 
An* she's twa glancin' sparklin* e*en. 

Her breath is like the fragi-ant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossum'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace 
An' chiefly in her sparklin' e'en 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY 
Tune — " O'er the hills and far aw^y.^ 

How can my poor heart be glad, 

When ab>ent from my sailor lad ? 

How can I the thought forego, 

He's on the seas to meet his foe ! 

Let me wander, let me rove, 

Still my heart is with my love ; 

NightU dreams and thoughts by day 

Are with him that's far away. 
On the seas ami far away. 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Niyhtly dreams ajid thoughts by day^ 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
M\ sailor's thund'ring at his gun : 
Bullets, sp ire my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 

On the seas and fur away, tfc 

At the starless midnight hour, 

Whtn winter rules with boundless power, 

As the storms the forests tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air, 

Listening to the doubling roar. 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

A.. ^ can — I weep and pray 

For his weal that's far away. 

On the seas and far away, §•«• 



Peace, thy olive wand extend, 

And bid wild war his ravage end, 

Man with brother man to meet. 

And as a brother kindly givet. 

Then may heaven with prosperous gales 

Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 

To my arms their charge convey. 

My dear lad that's far away. 

On the seas and far away, §v. 



ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 
Tune — " On a bank of flowers," 

On a bank of flowers, on a summer day, 

For summer lightly drest. 
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay. 

With love and sleep opprest ; 
When Willie, wandering' throus^h the wood) 
Who for her favour oft had sued ; 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed. 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed. 

Were sealed in soft repose ; 
Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed, 

It richer dyed the rose. 
The springing lilie, sweetly prest, 
Wild wanton kissed her rival breast. 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushedf 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease. 

All harmniiy and grace: 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 
A faltering ardent kiss he stole ; 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, 

And sighed his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear-inspired wings ; 
So Nelly, stirting. half awake, 

Away affrighted springs. 
But Willie followed — as he should ; 
He overtook her in the wood ; 
He vowed, he prayed, he found the maid 

Forgiving all and good ! 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH. 

Oh, open the door, some pity show, 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ' 
Though thou hast beet false, I'll cret profV 
true, 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ' 

Cauld is the blast upon my pah cheek* 
But caulder thv love for me, oh ' 



_ — . — ^ — _ - . .^ 


220 BURNS ^ 


W^ORKS. 


The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 


Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 


Is nought to my pains fra« thee, oh ! 


As is a kiss o' Willie. 


The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 


HE. 


And time is setting with me, oh ! 


Let fortune's wheel at random rin, { 


False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 


And fools may tyne, and knaves may will V 


I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh ! 


My thoughts are a' bound upon ane. 




And that's my ain dear Philly. 


She has open'd the door, she has opened it wide. 




She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 


SHE. 


My true love, she cried, and sunk down by his 


What's a* the joys that gowd can gie ? 


side, 


I care nae wealth a single flie ; 


Never to rise again, oh ! 


The lad I love's the lad for me. 




And that's my ain dear Willie. 


O PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY 






STAY, SWEET WARBLING WOO 5 j 


Tune—" The sow's tail." 


LARK. 1 


HE. 


T^ne—" Loch-Erroch side." | 


O Philly, happy be that day 




^hen roving through the gather'd hay, 


O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 


My youthfu' heart was stown away. 


Nor quit for me the trembling spray ! 


And by thy charms, my Philly. 


A hapless lover courts thy lay, j 




Thy soothing fond complaining. j 


SHE. 


Again, again that tender part, 


O Willie, aye I bless the grove 


That I may catch thy melting art ; 


Where first I own'd my maiden love. 


For surely that wad touch her heart, 


Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, 


Wha lulls me wi' disdaining. 


To be my ain dear Willie. 






Say, was thy little mate unkind, 


HE. 


And heaid thee as the careless wind ? 


4s songsters of the early year 


Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 


Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 


Sic notes of woe could wauken. 


So ilka day to me mair dear 


Thou tells o* never-ending care. 


And charming is my Philly. 


O' speechless grief and dark despair ; 




For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 


SHE. 


Or my poor heart is broken ! 


As on the brier the budding rose 




Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 


____ 


So in my tender boii.m grows 




The love I bear my Willie. 


WAT YE WHA'S IN YON T0U3f 


HE. 

The milder sun and bluer sky. 


Thine—'* I'll gang nae mair to yon toun.* 


That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 


WAT ye wha's in yon toun 


Were ne'er sae wtlcome to my eye 


Ye see the e'ening sun upon ? 


As is a sight of Philly. 


The fairest maid's in yon toun, 




That e'ening sun is shining on. 


SHE. 


Now ha])i\' down yon gay green shaw, 


The little swallow's wanton wing, 


She wanders hy yon spreading tree ; 


Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 


How blest, Vf flow "is, that round her blaW 


Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring. 


Ye catch the glances o' her ee. 


As meeting o' my Willie. 


How blest, ye birds, that round her sing, 




And wek-oiiK' in the blooming year ! 


HE. 


And doubly welcome he the spring, 


The bee, that thro' the sunny hour 


The season to my Jeanie dear ! 


Sips nectar in the openi ig flower, 




Compar'd wi' my delig'at is poor, 


The sun blinks blythe on yon toun. 


Upon the lips c' PhiUy. 


Amang yon broomy braes sae green J 




But my delight, in yon toun, 


SHE. 


And dearest pleasure, is my Jean. 


The woodbine in the dewy weet 


Without my love, not a' the charm* 


^ hen e\ ening shades in pilence meet^ 


Of Paiadise could yield me joy j 


-i 



SONGS. 



^2j 



But gie me «4?an e in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's drearie sky. 

mly cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Though raging winter rent tiie air; 

And she a lovely little flower, 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 

O sweet is she in yon toun, 

The sinking sun's gane down upon ; 
Ths dearest maid's in yon toun, 

His setting beam e'er shone upon. 
If angry fate be sworn my fie, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear, 
I'll careless quit aught else below ; 

But spare, oh ! «pare m« Jeanie dear. 
For, while life's dearest blood runs warm. 

My thoughts frae her shall ne'er depart : 
For, as most lovely is her form. 

She has the truest, kindest heart. 



O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. 

This air is Oswald's : the song I made out 
ai compliment to Mrs. Burns. 

were I on Parnassus' hill. 
Or had o' Helicon my fill ; 
That i might catch poetic skill. 
To sing how deir I love thee. 
But Nith mau» 'a my Muse's well, 
My Muse maui. ^-e thy bonnie sell ; 
On Cor^incon I'll glow'r and spell. 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet IMuse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 

1 coudna sing, I coudna say. 
How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee .' 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And ay I muse and sing thy name, 
[ only live to love thee ! 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on. 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 
'Till then, and then I love thee ! 



As dews o' simmer weep*ing, 
In tears the rose-bud steeping : 
O that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o' womankinA 
And ne'er a ane to peer ha- 
lf thou shalt meet a lassie 

In grace and beauty charming, 
Thit e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warmings 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming ; 
O that's, Sfc. 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking. 

But her by thee is slighted ; 
And if thou art delighted ; 
O that's, Sfc. 

If thou hast met this fair one. 
When frae her thou hast parted ; 

If every other fair one 

But her, thoru hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted; 
O that's, Sfc. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH I LOOi. 
THE NORTH. 



ro 



Out over the Forth I look to the north. 

But what is the north and its Highlands t^ ne i 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breaws,, 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolliojj t«ea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to iC»t, 
That happy my dreams and my sluiRjbcrg mm 
be ; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie anrf me 



O WHA IS SHE THAT LOES ME. 

Tune—" Morag." 

O WHA is she that loes me. 

And has my heart a-keepinj( ? 
Q sweet is she that loes me. 



PEGGY ALISON. 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 
Are no sae blest as I am ! 
I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 

An' III hiss thee o'er again^ 
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 
My honnie Peygy Alison, 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charill% 
I clasp my countless treasure, 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to shares 
Than sic a moment's pleasure I 
ru kiss. Sec. 



222 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever ; 

And on thy hps I seal my vow. 
And break it shall I never ! 



POWERS CELESTIAL. 

Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her Ibrm sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless lis your own ; 
Let my Mai;y's kindred spirit, 

Draw your choicest influence down. 
Make the gales you waft around her, 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her. 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home. * 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 
Tune—" Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wing 

Fanned the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare i 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peeped- o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's caieless song 

Glad I did snare, 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led nie there : 
Sweet to the oj.'ening day. 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray j 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis th fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were ; 
I marked the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare ; 
So kind may fortune be ! 
Such make his destiny. 
He who w«uld injur* thee, 

Phillis the fair ! 



PUIRTITII CAULD: 

Tune — " I had a horse.** 

O, PUIRTITH cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet puirtith a' i could forgie. 
An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 

O, why should fate sic pleasure havi 

Lifers dearest bands untwining f 
Or why sae sweet a fiower as love 
Depend on Fortunes shining f 

This world's wealth when I think on, 

Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 
Fie, fie oh silly coward man, 

That he should be the slave o't. 

O, why should fate, §*c. 

Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray 

How she repays my passion ; 
But prudence is her owerword aye, 

She talks of rank and fashion. 

O, why should fate, SfC- 

O, wha can prudence think upon 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O, wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 

O, why should fafey 9fe» 

How blest the humble cottar's lot ' 

He woos his simple dearie ; 
The sillie bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 

O, why should fate, §*c. 



♦ Probably written on Highland Mary, «n the 
•/the i'oet's departure for the West Indies. 



RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. 

The last stanza of this song is mine ; it was 
composed out of compliment to one of the wor- 
tfciest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, 
Esq. Writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Co- 
lonel of the Crochallan corps, a club of wits 
who took that title at the time of raising the 
fencible regiments. 

O RATTLIN, roarin Willie, 

O he held to the fair, 
An* for to sell his fiddle. 

And buy some ither ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle. 

The saut tear blint his ee ; 
And rattlin roarin Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to nm, 

O Willie, come sell "your fiddle, 

O sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
O willie come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o* wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle. 

The warl' wou'd think I was mai^ 
For many a rantin day 

My fiddle and I hae had ' 



SONGS. 



223 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER 
BLOWING. 

I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella 
M'Leod of Raza, alludin^ to her feelings on the 
dsath of her sister, and the still more melancholy 
death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of 
Loudon. 

Tun^^" M'Grigor of Roro's Lament" 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray *d deploring. 
Farewell hours, that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Haii ! thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 

O'er the Past too fondly pondering, 
On the hopeless Future wandering j 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing ; 
Gladly how would I resign t'hee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! 



SAW YE OUGHT O' CAPTAIN GROSE. 
Sir John Malcolm." 



Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo and ago. 
If he's among his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North .' 

Igo, and ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ' 

Igo, and ago, 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

h he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, and ago. 
Or haudin' Sarah by the wame ^ 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near hitSi , 

Igo, and ago, 
As for the deil he d-i ir na steer him, 
Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th* inclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago, 
Which Will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago. 



So may you have auid stanes in storey 

Igo, and ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



SCROGGAM. 

There was a wife wonned in CockpeU) 

Scroggam ; 
She brewed gude ale for gentlemen : 

Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 

Scroggam, my dearie, RufFum. 

The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, 

Scroggam ; 
The priest o' the parish fell in another : 

Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 

Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum. 

They laid the twa in the bed thegither, 

Scroggam, 
That the heat o' the tane might cool the tether 

Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 

Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum. 



SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE. 

Tune—" She's fair and fause." 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart. 

I loo'd her mickie and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my hearty 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A cuif cam in wi' rowth o' gear. 
And I hae tint my dearest dear ; 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bounie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove ; 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman, lovely woman fair ! 
An angel's form's faun to thy share, 
*Twad been ower mickie to hae gi'en thee mai 

I mean an angel mind. 



SHE SAYS SHE LOES ME BEST 
OF A'. 

Tune—" Onagh's Water-falL" 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 
Her eyebrows of a darker hue. 



224 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Bewitciiingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnle blue. 
Her smilins^ sae wyling, 

Wad make a wietch forget his woe ; 
What pleasiiie, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ; 
Such was my Chloric' bonnie face. 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion : 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming. 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a*. 

Let others love the city. 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley. 

The dewy eve, and rising moon. 
Fair beaming and streaming, 

Her siirer light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 
And hear mv vows o' truth and love, 

\nd say thou lo'es nie best of a'. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 



Tune- 



Tibby Fowler.' 



vViLLiK Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The place they ca'd it Linkumdoddie. 
Willie was a wabster gude, 

Could stown a clew wi' onie bodie. 
He had a wife was dour and din, 

O, Tinkler Madgie was her mother : 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her ! 

She has an ee, she has but ane, 

The cat has twa the very colour ; 
Twa rustic teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 
A whihkin' heard about her mou' ; 

Her nose and ciiin they threaten ither : 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her ! 

She's bow-hovigh'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin' leg a hand-bread shorter; 

She's twisted richt, she's twisted left. 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 



She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther t 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her ! 

Auld baudrons* by the ingle sits. 

And wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dichts her grunyief wi' a huRhion.^ 
Her walie neeves,jj like midden creeU ; 

Her face wad fyle the Logan Water • 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her ! 



STEER HER UP AND HACD HEl 
GAUN, 

T^ne—" Steer hor up." 

O STSER her up and hand her gaun ; 

Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
And gin she winna tak a man, 

E'en let her tak her will, jo. 

First shore her wi' a kindly kist, 

And ca' another gill, jo ; 
And gin she tak the thing amiss, 

E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. 

O steer her up, and be na blate ; 

And gin she tak it ill, jo, 
Then lea' the lassie to her fate. 

And time nae ianger spill, jo. 

Ne'er break your heart for ae r*itt«t( 

But chink upon it still, jo. 

That gin the lassie winna do'*. 

Ye' 11 find another will, jo. 



SWEET FA'S THE EVE ON CRAIGIR 
BURN. 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 

And blythe awakes the morrow, 
But a' the pride o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading tr»e8, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can pleas«. 

And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my grieft impar^ 

, Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my hes^t, 
If I conceal it Ianger. 

If thou refuse to pity me. 
If thou shalt love anither, 



♦ The cat f Meuth, 



t Cuahioo. 



SONGS. 



225 



When yon greau leaves fade fiaft the tree, 
Arouad my grave they'll wither.* 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a -breaking, dear tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity, 
But what wJV Ido wi' Tarn Glen? 

I'm thinking, wi* sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I miij;ht mak a fen '. 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
K I mauuna marry Tarn Glen. 

There's Lowiie the laird o' Dumeller, 

" Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen? 

My rainnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's orddiu'd I maun tak him, 
O wha will I get like Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heurt to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written Tam Glen. 

The last Hallowe'en I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bou'iie black hen, 
Gin ye will advise mt to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



THE AULD MAN. 

Bdt lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoiced the day. 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In dou^'le pride were gay : 
But aow our joys are fled. 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden ISIay, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 



But my white pow, nae kindly th3W« 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, 

Sinks ill time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain I 
Thou golden time o' youthfu* prime, 

Why comest thou not again ! 



THE BANKS 0' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou'll break my heart thou warbling bird. 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ' 
Thou minds me o' departed joys. 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause lover stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left thv thorn wi' me. 



THE BANKS BY CASTLE-GORDOH 

Tune-''* Moiag. 

Streams that glide in orient plains 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks by Castle- Gordon. 

Spicy forests ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle -Gordoa. 



Wildly here, without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 



• Cragie-bum wood is situated on the banks of the 
river Motfat, and about three miles distant from the 
village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal wa- 
ters. The woods of Cragie-bum. and of Uumcrief. ! Dearest to the feelin? soul, 
were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was cu i . i r , - . 

there he met the " Lassie wi* the Imt-white locks," i ^be plants the forest, pours the floodi 
»Dd that he conceived several of his beautifuJ lyrics, j Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 



226 



BURNS VvORKS. 



4nd find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By boDQie Castle- Gordon. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

2V»ti<'— " Rhannerach dhon na chii." 

These verses were composed on a charming 
girl, a Mi»s Charlotte Hamilton, who is now 
married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq. phy- 
sician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Ga- 
rin Hamilton, of Mauchline ; and was l)orn on 
whe hanks of Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote 
these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clav^k- 
maniianshire, on the romantic banks of the little 
river Devon. — I first heard the air from a lady 
in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for 
this work. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 
Devon, 
With green spreading bushes and flow'rs 
blooming fair ! 
But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the De- 
von, 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
Ayr : 
Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flow'r. 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ; 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal show'r. 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew ! 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 

With chill, hoary-wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
An<l far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizttst, 

The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 

And England triumphant display her proud 
rose ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies, 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flows. 



THE BANKS OF CREE. 
Tune—" The banks of Cree." 

Hire is the glen, and hert.' rhe bower. 
All underneath i^he birclieri shade; 

The village bell his toil'd tlie hour, 
O, what can stay i>>y lovely maid ? 

Tl8 not Maria's whispering call, 

Tis but the balmy brea?-liing gale, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall. 
The dewy star of eve to haii. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark to the grove. 
Hi« little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tia music — and 'tis love. 



And art thou come, itid art th.)u tru»- 
O welcome dear ti love and tue ! 

And let us all our vcws renew, 
Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



THE BARD'S SONG. 

THB bard's song IN "THE JOLLV BXOGi^l 
Tune—" Jolly mortals, fill your glaise*. 

See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragt^ed ring ! 
Round and round take up tiie chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing — 

A fig for those by law protected^ 

Liberty*s a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected. 
Churches built to please the prietL 

What is title what is treasure, 

What is reputation's care f 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

*Tis no matter how or where. 
A fig for those, §*c. 

Life is all a variorum. 

We regard not how it goc« , 
Let them cant about decorum, 

Who hav" characters to lose. 
A fig for those, ^c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all our wandering train! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 
A fig for those, Sfc. 



THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 

BET-WEEN THE DUKE OF ARGTLE AND THB 
EARL OF MAK. 

** O CAM ye here the fight to shun, 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ?'* 
I saw the battle sair and teugh, 
And reekin-red ran monie a sheugh, 
My heart for fear gae sough fur sough. 
To hear the thuds, and see the duds 
O* clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red- coat lads wi' black cockades. 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgushX 
And mony a bouk did fa', man • 

The great Argyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced twenty iiile* ' 



SONGS. 



«2^ 



They liaok*d ano lash'd, while broadswords 

clash'd, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 
Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man. 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
tn lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets opposed the targe, 
And thousands hastened to the charge, 
W-' highland wrath they frae the sheath, 
Drew blaHes o' death, till out o' l^reath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

*' O how deil Tarn can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the btig wi' a" their might, 
And strHU<;ht to Stirling winged their flight ; 
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; 
And mony a hunted poor red-coat 

For fear aniaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate came up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man : 
She swoor she saw some rebels run, 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; 
Their left-hand general had nae skill. 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neeboi's blood to spill ; 
For fear by foes, that they should lose 
Tiieir cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 

And so it goes, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 

I fear my Lord Panniure is slain, 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man. 

Now wad ye sing this double fight. 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 

But mony bade the world gude-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and uiell, 

By red claymores, and muskets, knell, 

Wi' dying yed, the tories fell, 

And whigs to hell did flee, man.* 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the 
Falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. 

Tune—" The Birks of Abergeldy.* 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye gOy 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, to the Birks of Aber- 
feldy 9 



* This was written about the time our bsrd made 
hu tour to the Highlands. 1787. 



Now simmer blinks on flowery brae*. 

And o'er the crystal streamlets plays ; 

Come, let us spend the lichtsome day» 

In the Bilks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, S^c. 

While o'er their head the hazels hing* 
The little birdies blythely sing, » 
Or lichtly flit on wanton wing, 
in the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, Sfc. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaiwin' stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi* fragrant spieadin' shawgj 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, Sfc. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flow'rii 
White ower the lin the burnie pours, 
And, risia', weets wi' misty show'ra 
The Birk> of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, Sfc. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me* 
Supremely bless'd wi' love and thee- 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.* 
Bonnie lassie, SfC 



THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 

Tun*—" Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tat«ir 
let's fly." 

No churchman am I, for to rail and to write; 
No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight ; 
No sly man of business, contrivmg a snare ; 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy — I give him his bow ; 
i scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are 

here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his 

horse ; 
There centum-per-centum, the cit with hk 

purse ; 
But see you ' the Crotyn,' how it waves in the 

air! 
I There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 



* The chorus is borrowed from an old simple bar 
lad, called " The Birks of A'flergeldy;" of which the 
f«llowing is a fragment 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go 
To the birks o' Abergeldie? 
Ye shall get a gown o' silk, 
A gown o' silk, a gown o' silk, 
Ye shall get a gown o' silk* 
And coat of calliinankie 



228 



BURNS' WORKS 



The wfe of my bosom, alas ! sie did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 

stairs, 
With a glorious bottle, that ended ray cares. 

" Life's cares they are comforts," • a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ; 
And faith ^ agree with th' old prig to a hair, 
For a big-bt»'Uod bottle's a heaven of care. 

STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Have a big-bellied bottle when harassM with 

care. 



IHE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gilt my death frae twa sweet een, 

'Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd, 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblms listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue.f 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Composed on mj little idol, " The charm- 
ng, lovely Davies." 

Bonne '/•< e thing, cannie wee thing. 
Lovely wee thing was thou mine ; 



• Youngs Night Thoughts. 

t The heroine of this song was Miss J. of Lochma- 
fcen. This lady, now Mrs. R. after residing some time 
u Liverpool, is settled with her husband in New Yorii, 
Kiorth America. 



/ wad wear thee in iny bosom f 
Lest my jewel L should tine. 

Wishfully I look and languish, 
In that bonnie face of thine , 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguwtt. 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Bonnie wee thing, ^c. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beautjr. 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o* this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, ^c. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYIR. 

The Catriue woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, * 
Nile lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Heisel' in beauty's bloom the while. 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering birwers. 

Again ye'il charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair. 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel! sw^t Ballochmyle I 



THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

These words are mine ; I composed thenj 
from the old traditionary verses. 

There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes, 

( Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

And he had a wife was the plague o' his day» ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 
in prime. 

Ae day as the carl gaed up Ae lang glen, 
( Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do vow fen?" 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue ia 
in prime. 

** I've got a bad wife, Sir ; that's a* my com 
plaint ; 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme) 



• Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Diigald Stewart 
Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy m the University 
of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sii 
John Whitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq. (1800. 



SONGS. 



229 



For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint ; 
And the thyme it is witber'd and the rue is 
in prime." 

It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall 

crave, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have, 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 

in prime." 

♦* O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carl eaid, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

But if ye can match her, ye*re war nor ye're ca*d. 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime." 

The devil has got the auld wife on his back ; 

(Ht-y, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
it; prime. 

He's carrier! her hame to his ain hallan-door ; 

(H<iy, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore. 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his 
band, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
Turn out on her gaurd in the clap of a hand ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
prime. 

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

Wbae'er she gat hands on came near her nae 

mair ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue it 

in prime. 

•* A reekit wee devil looks over the wa* ; 

( Hey and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
O, help, wa-ster, help, or she'll ruin us a', 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime." 

rhe devil he swore by the edge o' his knife^ 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
He was n(<t in wedlock, thank heaven, but in 
hell; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

rhen Satan hiis travelled again wi* his pack ; 
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wV thyme) 



And to her auld husband he's cariied her back ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue la 
in prime. 

'* I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 
Tune — " Captain O* Kaine." 

Ths small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning ; 
The murmuring streamlet runs clear through 
the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
morning ; 
And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green 
dale. 
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 

fair. 
When the lingerin' moments are numbered by 
care ? 
No flowers gaily springing. 
Or birds sweetly singing, 
Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared, could it merit their ma- 
lice — 
A king and a father to pflice on his throne ! 
His right are these hills, and his right are these 
valleys. 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but i can 
find none. 
But 'tis not my suiFerings, thus wretched, for- 
lorn ; 
My brave gallant fiiends, 'tis your ruin I mour ^, 
Your deeds proved so loyal 
In hot bloody trial ; 
Alas ! can I make it no better eturn ' 



THE DA\ RETURix^. MY BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tune—" Seventh of Novenilier." 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer tun was half sae sweet; 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mina 

While day and night can bring delight, 
Or nature ought of pleasoi'e give I 



230 



BURNS WORKS. 



While joys above, my mind can move, 
For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 

When that grim foe of life below, 
Comes in between to make us part ; 

The iron hand that breaks our band, 
It breaks my bliss — it bre^iks my heart. 



THE DEATH SONG. 

BCENE—A Field of Battle.— Time of the DAT- 
Evening. — 'I'he Wounded and Dying of the Vieto- 
rious Army are supposed to join in the following 
Song : 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
and ye skies, 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties. 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe, 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
know. 
No terrors hast thou to the brave. 

Thou strikest the Hll peasant ; he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves even the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strikest the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the proud field of honour — our swords in our 
hands. 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not die with the brave ! 



THE DEIL'S AW\ WF 

MaN. 



THE EXCISE- 



The deil cam fiddling t\ ough the toun, 

And danced awa w" the exciseman ; 
And ilka auld wifp cried, Auld Mahoun, 
1 wish you Iu.k o' the prize, man. 
The deil s awa, the deil's awa. 

The dei.Vs awa wV the exciseman ; 
Ht.*s tanced awa, he's danced awa, 
He*s danced uwa wV the exciseman I 

We'll -nak our maut, we'll brew our drink, 
Wt' 11 laugh, sing, and rejoice, man ; 

\nd mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil, 
i'hat danced awa wi' the exciseman ! 
The deiVs awa, 8fc. 

riiere's threesonie ieeis, there's foursome re is, 
Thttre'» hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 



But the ae best dance e sr cam to tne heeli^ 
Was, The deil's awa wi' the excsieinaiw 
The deiVs awa, 8fc, 



THE ELECTION. 
Tune—" Fy, let us a* to the tmdaL* 

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright^ 
For there will he bickering there, 

For Murray's light horse art. to mustef 
And oh, how the heroes will swear f 

And there will be Murray commander. 
And Gordon the batttle to win : 

Like brithers they'll stand by each othei| 
Sae knit in alliance and sin. 
Fy, let us a\ Sfc. 

And there will be black-nebbed JoHonie^ 
The tongue of the trump to them a* ; 

If he get na hell for his haddin', 
The deil gets nae justice ava ! 
Fy, let us a', Sfc. 

And there will be Teinpleton's birkiCf 
A boy no sae black at the bane ; 

But, as to his fine Nabob fortune, 
We'll e'en let the subject alane. 
Fy, let us a\ Sfc. 

And there will be Wigton's new sheriff: 
Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped ; 

She's gotten the heart of a B by. 

But what has liecome of the head ? 
Fy, let us a', Sfc. 

And there will be Cardoness' squire, 

So mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A w'ight that will weather damnation, 

For the devil the prey will despise. 
Fy, let us a', Sfc. 

And there will be Douglasses doughty, 
New christening towns far and near; 

Abjuring their democrat doings, 
iSy kissing the do up of a peer 
Fy, let us a\ Sfc. 

And there will be Kenmure sae generous. 
Whose honour is proof 'gainst the storOB • 

To save them frae stark reprobation. 
He lent them his name to the firm. 
Fy, let us a\ ^c. 

But we winna mention Redcastle ; 

The body, e'en let him escape : 
He'd v«inture the gallows for siller^ 

An 'twerena the cost o' the rapt. 
Fy, let us a\ §'c. 

And tLere is our King's Lord Lieutenant, 
Sae famed for his grateful return ? 



SONGS. 231 


The billle is gettins; his questions, 
To say in St. Stephen's the mom. 
Fify let us a, Sfc. 


And also the Scott o' Galloway, 
Sodgering, gunpowder Blair. 
Fi/, let us a\ Sfc. 


\nd there will he lads of the gospel, 
Muiihead, wha's as ijuile as he's true ; 

And there will be Buittle's apostle, 

Wha's mair o' the black than the blue. 
Ft/, let us a, Sfc. 


Then hey ! the chaste interest o* Broughton, 
And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 

It may send Balmai,#iie to the Commons ; 

In Sodom 'twould make him a king. 

Fy, let us a', §*c. 


4nd there will be folk frae St. Mary's,* 
A house o' great merit and note : 

rte deil ane but honours them highly— 
The deil ane will gie them his vote. 
Ft/, let us a', Sfc. 

And there will be wealthy young Richard : 
Dame Fortune should hing by the neck : 

But for prodigal thriftless bestowing, 
His merit had won him respect. 


And hey ! for the sanctified M — r — y. 
Our kind wha wi' chapels has stored ; 

He foundered his horse among harlots, 
But gied the auld mare to the Lord. 
Fi/, let us a\ 8fc. 


THE GALLANT WEAVER. 


F>/, let us a\ 8fc. 

And there will be rich brither Nabobs ; 

Though Nabobs, yet men o' the first : 
And there will be Colliston's whi.skers, 

And Quintin, o' lads not the warst. 
/^y, let us a\ §-c. 


Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would ticft, 


And there will be Stamp-office Johnnie— 
Tak tent how you purchase a dram ; 

And there will be gay Cassencarry ; 
And there will be gleg Colonel Tam. 
Fi/, let us u\ §*c. 


And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land, 
But to my heart I'll add my hanu, 
And give it to the weaver. 


And there will be trusty Kirrochtrie, 
Whase honour is ever hh sa' 

If the virtues were packed in a parcel. 
His worth might be >aiiipie for a*. 
Fi/, let us a', Sf-c. 

And can we forget the auld Major, 
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys? 

Our flattery we'll keep for some other ; 
Him only it's justice to praise. 


While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in opening flowers ; 
While c(trn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver.* 


THE GARDENER WI' HIS PAIDLE. 


Fy, let us a', Sfc. 
\nd there will be maiden Kilkerran, 


This air is tne Gardeners' March. The title 
of the song only is old ; the rest is mine. 


And also Barskimming's gude wight ; 
And there v/Jll be roaring Birtwhistle, 
Wha luckily roars in the right. 
Fi/, let us a', §*c. 


When rosy May comes in wi nowers, 

To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers; 

Then busy, busy are his hours, 
The gard'uer wi' his paidle. 


And there, rrae tne Niddisdale noroer, 
We'!! mingle the M;ixvvells in droves, 

Teuch Jockie, stanch Geordie, and Willie, 
That granes toi toe fishes and loves. 
Ffj, Lft us a', Sfc. 


The crystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry Itirds are lovers a* ; 
The scented breezes round him blaw, 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

When purple morning starts the hare 


Sculduddery and he will be there ; 


To steal upon her early tare ; 
Then thro' the dr ■vs he maun repair, 
Tiie gard'ner wi' his paidle. 


• Meaning the family of the Earl of Selkirk, re»- 
4ent at St. Mary's Isle, near Kirkcudbright. 


• In •ome editions s lilor is substituted for weavtr. 



232 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Wlien day e spiring in ths west, 
TLe cnrtain draws of nature's rest : 
He flies to lier arms he lo'es best, 
The gard'ner wi* his paidle. 



THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHER^ 
ING FAST. 

Tuw- " Banks of Ayr." 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roais the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain. 
The huiiter now has left the moor. 
The scatler'd coveys meet secure, 
While here 1 wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The autumn mourns her ripening cona. 
By early winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid azure sky 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Wliere many a danger 1 must dare, 
Far from the bonuie banks of Ayr. 

*Tis not the surging billows' roar, 
*Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
Though death in every shape appear. 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heiirt transpierced with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The- scene where wretched fancy roves. 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell my friends, farewell my foes. 
My peace with these, my love with those ; 
The bursting tears ray heart declare ; 
Faiewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.» 



THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING. 
Tt««*~" 1 red you beware at tlie hunting." 

Thk heather was blooming, »he meadows were 

niawn, 
Our lads gae<l a hunting, ae d iv at the dawn, 
O'er moors and o'er mosses an! niony a glen. 
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen. 



• Darns wrote this song, while convoying his chest 
»o f.u- on Uie road from Ayrshire tn (;r(en(M:k, where 
he intended to cmbarii in a tew days for Jamauia He 
de&igi^e 1 it, he says, as his farewell dirge to his native 
Kuitntrv 



Tred you beware at the hunting^ young men ; 
I red you beware at the hunting^ young men; 
Tak some 07i the wing, and some as thei^ 

spring, 
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather 

bells. 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy feHs ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, 
And C ' as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
/ red, ^'C. 

Auld Phoftbus himsei, as he peep'd o er the hill ; 

In spite at her plumage he tryed his skill ; 

He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on th« 

brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where 

she lay. 

I red, §•<?• 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a miie at a. flight.-i- 
/ red, §-c. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. 

This was a composition of mine in very earlf 
life, before I was known at all iu the worll. 

Nae gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair, 

Sail ever be my Muse's care ; 

Their titles a' are empty shew ; 

Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, (), 
I set me down wV right good wittf 
To sing my Highland lassie, O, 

were yon hills and vallies mine. 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love slutuld know 

1 bear my Highland lassie, O- 

Within the glen, §*c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And 1 maun cros.s the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents dow» 
I'll lo'e m'' ""^V'.and lassie, O. 
Within the glen, ifc. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's gloW 
iVIy faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, Sfc. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar ; 
For her I'll trace a distant shore ^ 





SONGb 23J 


n.at Tn'Iifla wpalt-h may lustre throw 


The lily's cue, and rose's dye. 


Af<»un(i my Hi^'i^lan'i lassie, 0. 


Bespake the lass o' Ballochmyle 


Within the glen, Sfc. 






Fair is the morn in flowery May, 


She has my heart, she has my hand, 


And sweet is night i« Autumi mild, 


By secret truth and honoui's band ! 


When roving through the garden gay, 


'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 


Or wand'ring in the lonely wild ; 


?*?a thine, my Highland lassie, 0. 


But woman, Nature's darling child ! 


Fiireu-ell the (jlen, sae bushy, O, 


There all her charms she does compile f 


Farewell the plain, sae rashy, 0, 


Even there her other works are foil'd, 


To other lamls I now must go, 


By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 


To sing my Highland lassie, 0. 






Oh, had she been a country maid, 




And I the happy country swain, 
Though shelter'd in the lowest shed 






That ever ro^e on Scotland's plain ! 


THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. 


Through weary winter's wind and rain, 


Tune—" O'er the hills and far awa." 


With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 




And nightly to my bo&v«i strain 


O, now can I be blithe and glad, 


The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 


Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 




When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 


Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 


L o'er the hills and far awa ? 


Where fame and honours lofty shine; 




And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 


It's no the frosty wint« wind, 


Or downward dig the Indian mine. 


It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 


Give me the cot below the pine, 


But aye the tear comes in my ee 


To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 


To think on him that's far awa. 


And ev'ry day liave joys divine, 




Wi' the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.* 


My father pat me frae his door, 




My friends they hae disown'd me a' ; 






But I hae ane will take my part, 




The bonnie lad that's far awa. 


THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED 




TO ME.f 


A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 




And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 


When Januar winds were blawin' cauld, 


Aiid I will wear them for his sake, 


Unto the north I bent my way. 


The boiiuie lad that's far awa. 


The mirksome nic-ht did me enfauld, 




I kend na whei-e to lodge till day ; 


The weary winter soon will pass, 


But by good luck a lass I met, 


And s'pring will deed the birkeu shaw ; 


Just in the middle of ray care, 


And my sweet babie will be born, 


And kindly she did me invite 


And he'll come hame that's far awa. 


To walk into a chamber fair. 




I bow'd fii' low unto this maici, 
And thank'd her for her courtfsie ; 






I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 


THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. 


And bade her make the bed to me. 


Tune—" The Lass of Ballochmyle." 






• This song was written in praise of Miss Aiexandei 


TwAS even, the dewy fields were green, 
On ilka blade the peirls hang; 


of Ballochmyle. Burns happened one fine evening to 


meet this yo'ing Vadv, when walking through the 
>-«autiful woods ol Hallorhnn le, which lie at the dia- 


Tie zephyr wanton'd loiind the bean, 


tance of two miles from his farm of Mossgiel. Struck 


And liore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang ; 


with a sense of her passing beauty, he wrote this noble 
lyric; which he soon after sent to her, enclosed in a 


letter, as full of delicate and romantic sentiment, and 


All nature li>t'iiing seein'd the while, 
Exrept where greenwood echoes rang, 


as poetical as itsilf. He was somewhat mortified ta 
find, that either maidenly modest, or p.ide of supe- 
rior station, prevented her fromacknowit dging the re- 


Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 


ceipt of his compliment: Indeed it is no where record. 




ed that she, at any stage of life, shewed the smallest 


With careless step I onward stray'd. 


sense of it; as to li,r the pearls seem to have been li- 
terally thrown away. 


My heart lejolced in Nattire's joy ; 
When, musing in a lonely glade. 


t There is an older and coarser sonsi, containing tne 


same incidents, and said to ha\e tjeen occasioned by ar 
adventure of ( harles H., when that monarch residea 


A maiden fair I chanced to spy : 


inScotland with the Presbvteri.m ,irmy, I6.5ii-5I. Tha 


Hor look wii'^ like the morning't eye, 
Iler air like JN'ature's vernal smile; 


affair happened at the honse of Port-I.etliem, in Aber 


deensiiire, and it was a daughter of the laird that mad» 
the bed to the kiaa. 







234 



BURNS' WORKS. 



She marie the Ued haith wide and braid, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it douQ ; 

She put the cnp to her rosy lips, 

And drank, Young man, now sleep ye soun. 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 

And from the chand)er went wi' speed : 
But I ca'd her quickly hack again, 

To lay some mair beneath my heid. 
A cod she laid beneath my heid. 

And served me with a due respect ; 
And, to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put ray arms about her neck. 

Haud afF your hands, young man, she says, 

And dinna sae uncivil be ; 
It will be time to speak the morn, 

If ye hae ony love for me. 
Her hair was like the links o* gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivorie, 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to inc. 

Her bosojn was the driven snaw, 

Twa dtiftit heaps sae fair to see ; 
Her limV)8 the polish'd marble stane. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her ower and ower again. 

And aye she wistna what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa* ; 

The lassie tUx/cai na .ang till day. 

Upon the mon-ow, whtn we rase, 

I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
And aye she biush'd, and aye she sigh'd, 

And said, Alas ! ye've ruin'd me. 
I clasp'd her waist, and kissM'her syne. 

While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee J 
1 said, My lassie, dinna cry. 

For ye aye shall niak the bed to me. 

She took her mother's Holland sheets. 

And made them a m sarks to me ; 
Blytl.e and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass that made the bed to me, 

The braw lass that made the bed to me; 
ril ne'er forget, till the day 1 dee, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



' How long I «ve liv'd — but how much liv*d ia 

vain 
How little c/ life's scanty span may remain : 
What aspects old Time, in his progress, has 

worn ; 
What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, 'till our suiiimit is gaifl'd ! 
And downward, how weak<?n'd, how daiken d, 

how pain'd ! 
This life's not worth having with all it can give, 
For something beyond it poor man sure mutt 

live. 



THE LAZY MIST 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hiii, 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- 
pear, 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leaHess, the meadows are brown. 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apirt let me muse. 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
sues ; 



THE LEA-RIG. 
Tune—*' The Lea-Rig." 

When o*er the hills the eastern star 

Tells buchtin-time is neai, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrowed field 

Return sae douff and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birk« 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My am Kind dearie, O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnicht hour, 

rd rove and ne'er be eerie, O, 
If through that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Altho\igh the night were ne'er sae wildi 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS, 

The first half stanza of this biiii.ii is old. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see j 
For e'en and morn, she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her ee. 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear and brethren three ' 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay. 

Their graves are growing green to see * 
And by them lies the dearest ad 

That ever blest a woman s ee 
Now wae to thee thou cruel lord. 

A bluidy man I trow thou p«. 
For raony a h-art thou Last maae Aa\r, 

That ne'er iid wran^ to thine or the* ^ 



SONGS. 



335 



THk. iOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune — •• Deil tak the wars." 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creatare ? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Nuinttering ilka bud which nature 

Wateis wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now through the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking Soods ; 
W^ild Nature s tenants, freely, gladly stray j 

The liHtwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower : 

The lav' rock to the sky 

Ascends wi" sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the diiy * 
Phoebus gilding the brow o* morning 

Banishes ilka darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 
When absent frae my fair. 

The murky shades o' care 
With staiLss gUiom o'ercast my sullen sky 

But when in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories aai t ; 
Tis then I wake to \ue, to light and joy. f 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 
TMn«— " Corn-Rigs ere bonnie. • 

It was upon a Lammas night. 

When corn-rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held uwa to Annie. 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

'Till, 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion shee agreed 

To see me through the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
set her down, wi' rijiht good -will, 

Anang the rigs o* barley. 
I ken t Uer heart was a' rav ain : 

1 loved her most sincercy ; 
I kiss'd her ower and ower again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

* fartatfon. Vow to the streaming foun in. 

Or up the heathy mountain 
The hart, hiiid, and roe, freely, wildly. wanton stray: 

In twining hazel bowers 

His lay the Unnet pours: 

The lav'rock, <Stc. 



Variation. When frae my Chloris parted. 
Sad, chee. less, broken hearted, 
I hen nighl^s gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, c 
my sky ; 
But when she charms my sight. 
In pride of beauty's -i«ht, 
When thro' my very heart 
Her beaming glones dart ; 
TU then, 'tis then 1 wake to life and joy 



I lock*d her in ray fond embrace ! 

Her heart was beating rurelv— 
My blessings on that happy p lace, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and start, so bright, 

That shone that hour sae clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear 5 

I hae been merry drinking ; 
I hae been joyfu' gathering gear ; 

I hae been happy thinking : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Though they were doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them A 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
Tune—" The MUl, Mill, O." 

When wild war's deadly blast was blaw% 

And gentle peace returninp'. 
And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd, 

That had been blear'd wi' mourning | 
I \eit the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger ; 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth; 

A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal light heart beat in my breast, 

My hands unstaiix'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia hame agam, 

I cheery on did wandjr. 
I thought upon the banks o* Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy j 
I thought upon the witching smile, 

That caught my youthful faecy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen. 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy oft I courted. 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ? 
And turn'd me round to hide the floot 

That in my ee was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, swev,£ lass. 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossuiUi 
O ! happy, happy may he be, 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king and country lan{ 

Tak pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gazed on me. 
And lovelier grew than ever ; 

Quoth she, A sodgei ance 1 luved. 
Forget him will I never. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Our humble cot and hftiuely fare» 

Ye freely shall partake o't ; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye' re welcome for the sake o't. 

She gazed — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pile as ony lily ; 
She sank within my arms and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By Him, who made yon sun and sky, 

By whom tiue love's regarded ; 
I am the man ! and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quoth she, My grandsire left me gowd, 

A niailin pienish'd fairly ; 
Then come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly. 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main. 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize. 

The sodger's wealth is honour. 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger : 
Remember he's his country's stay. 

Id day and hour o' danger.* 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 
Tune—" Robie Donna Gorach." 

Thh Thames flows proudly to the sea. 

Where royal cities stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command: 
When shall I see that honoured land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here. 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom j 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



* " Burns, I have been informed," says a clergyman 
of Dumfriesshire, in a letter to Mr. George Thomson, 
editor of Select Mtlodies of Scotlami, " was one sum- 
jner evening in tlie inn at Brownhill, with a couple of 
friends, when a poor way.worn soMier passed the win- 
dow. Of a sudden it struck the poet to call him in, 
Utid get the recital of his adventures; after hoarmg 
which, he all at o ce fell ir.to one of those fits of ab- 
itraction, not unusunl to him. He was lifted to the 
Tegion where lie had his garland and his singing-robes 
about him, and the n sulL was ihis admirable song he 
(fc-nt TOis for • The Mill, ^'il!, O.'" 



THE TOAST. 

At a meeting of the Dumfrigsshiru Volurtebbs 
held to commemorate the anniversary of Ron.VEV't 
victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upcm foi 
a Song, mstead of which he delivered the following 
Lines :— 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, 
Her-e's the memory of those on the twelfth that 

we lost ; — 
That we lost, did 1 say, nay, by heav'n ! that 

we found, 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes 

round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Whoe'er would betray him on higli may he 

swing ; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd. 
Be Anai'chy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he his £rst trial 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL 
JAMIE COMES HAME. 

This tune is sometimes called. There s fevb 
gude Ftllows when Willie's awn. — But I never 
have been able to meet with any thing else of 
the song than the title. 

Tune — " There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
hame." 

Bv yon castle-wa', at the close o' the day, 

I heard a man sing, though his head it wa« 

grey ; 
And, as he was singing, the tears down came— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : 
We daurna wee) say't, but we ken wha's to 

blame, — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their gi'een beds in the 

yird : 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu auld 

dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Since I tiut my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the 

•ame,— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes name 



SONGS. 



23T 



THE STOWN GLANCE O* KINDNESS. 
7%ne — «♦ Laddie, lie near me." 

'TwAS na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin ; 
Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undoin' : 
*Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o* 
kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear tliat despair maun abide me ; 
But though fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Qneen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! 
Ana thou'rt the angel that never can alter ; 
Sooner the sun in his motion shall falter. 



THERE'S NEWS, LASSES. 

There's news, lasses, news, 
Gude news hae I to tell ; 

There's a boat fu' o' lads 
Come to oar toun to sell. 

JTie wean wants a cradle, 
And the cradle wants a cod { 

And ril no gong to my bed. 
Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo' she, Mother, quo' she, 

Do ye what ye can, 
I'll no gang to my bed 

Till I get a mavi. 

The wean, Sfc 

I hae as gude a craft-rig 
As made o' yird and stane ; 

And V aly fa' the ley crap, 
For I maun tilPt again. 
The wean, Sfc. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 
Tun*—" Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young highknd rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go. where'er he stray, 

May heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle- Gordon! 

rhe trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be h^rging, 



The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blythely singing, 
And every flower be springing- 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle- Gordon.* 



THE WOODLARK. 

Tune—" Where'll bonnie Annie Ue.* 

Or, " Loeh-Erroch Side." 

O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A helpless lover courts thy lay. 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd. 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O speechless grief, and dark despair • 
For pity's salte, sweet bird, nae mair? 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CIT1 

There's a youth in this city, it were a greaft 
pity 
That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favour'd with a* 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a*. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket f is white as the new-driven snaw j 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the 
slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a,* 
His coat is the hue, 8fc. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin j 
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel mounted 
and braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her 

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'.— 
There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a 
haen him. 
And Sutsy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha ; 



I • The young Highland rover is supposed to be th 
young Chevalier, Prince Charles Edward. 
t All under-waistcoat with sletive*. 





238 BURNS' 


WORKS. 


There's lang-tDcher*d Nancy maist fetters his 


But weel the watching lover marks 


fancy, 


The kind love that's in her ee. 


—But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a*. 


this is no my ain lassie, Sfc. 


His coat is the hue, §*c. 




THE TOCHER FOR ME. 


THERE WAS ONCE A DAY 


Tune—" Balinamona Ora." 


r«n*— " Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 


AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 


There was once a day, but old Time then vra» 


The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms ; 


young, 


0, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 


That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line. 


0, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 


From some of your northern deities sprung. 


Then hey for a lass wV a tocher, then hey for 


(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's lii' 


a lass wi' a tocher, 


vine ?) 


TJien hey for a lass loV a tocher ; the nice 


From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 


yellow guineas for me. 


To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she 




would : 


Your beauty's a flower, in the morningf that 


Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 


blows, 


And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant 


And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 


it good. 


But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 




knowes, 


A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 


Ilk spring they're new deckit wi* bonnift white 


The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : 


yovves. 


Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, — 


Then hey, §-c. 


•' Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter 




shall rue !" 


And e'en when this beauty vour bosom has blest. 


With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 


The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest ; 


To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 


But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- 


corn ; 


prest, 


But chiefly the woods were here fav'rite resort, 


The langer ye hae them — the mair they*re ca- 


Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 


rest. 


horn. 


Then hey, ^c. 






Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers 




A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :• 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 






They darken'd the air, and they plundered 


THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. 


the land : 




Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 


I SEE a form, I see a face, 


They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside; 


Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 


She took to her hills and her ariows let fly. 


It wants, to me, the witching grace, 


The daring invaders they fled or they died. 


The kind love that's in her ee. * 




this is no my ain lassie, . 


The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north. 


Fair thout/h the lassie be; 


The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 


O weel ken I my ain lassie, 


the shore ;f 


Kind love is in her ee. 


The wild Scandinavian hoar issued forth 




To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore:| 


She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall. 


O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- 


And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 


vail'd, 


And aye it charms my very saul, 


No arts could ippease them, nor arms could 


The kind love that's in her ee. 


repel ; 


this is no my ain lassie, S^c. 


But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 




As Largs well can witness, and Loncartk 


A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 


tell.§ 


To stea? a blink, by a' unseen ; 




But gleg as light are lover's een, 


The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. 


When kind love is in the ee. 


With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife ; 


O this is no my ain lassie, 8^c. 
H may escape the courtly sparks, 




• The Romans, t The Saxons, t The Danes, 
t Two famous battles, in which the Danes or Not 


»♦ may escape the learned clerks ; 


wegians were defeated. 

• 


• 





1 


SONGS. 2S9 


Piovoked beyond bearing, at .dst she arose, 


Yestreen I met you on the moor. 


And robb'd hiin at oncj of his hopes and his 


Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoare ; 


life:* 


Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 


The Anjjlian lion, the terror of France, 


But feint a hair care I. 


Oft prowling, ensanguia'd the Tweed's sil- 


Tibbie, I hue, §-c. 


ver flood ; 




•tut taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 


T doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 


He learned to fear in his own native wood. 


Because ye hae the name o' clink, 




That ye can please me at a wink. 


Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free, 


Whene'er ve like to try. 


Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 


Tibbie, I hae, §-c. 


For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 




I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: 


But sorrow tak him that's sae meaOf 


Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose, 


Altho* his pouch o' coin were clean. 


The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 


Wha follows ony saucy quean 


base; 


That looks sae proud and high. 


But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 


2'ibbie, I hae, §-c. 


Then ergo she'll match them, and match 




them always. f 


A!tho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 




If that he want the yellow dirt, 




Ye'll cast your head anither airt. 
An' answer him fu' dry. 






Tibbie, I hae, §-c. 


THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, Jx\MIE. 


Tune—" Fee him. Father." 


But if he hae the name o' gear. 




Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 


Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 


Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 


Thou hast left me ever ; 


Be better than the kve. 


Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 


Tibbie, I hae, '&-c. 


Thou hast left me ever. 




Aften hast thoii vow'd that death 


But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advioe, 


Only should us sever ; 


Your daddie's gear maks you sae niee^ 


Now thou'st left thy lass for aye— 


The deil a ane wad speir your price, 


I maun see thee never, Jamie, 


Were ye as poor as I. 


ril see thee never. 


Tibbie, I hae, §-c. 


Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 


There lives a lass in yonder park, 


Thou hast me forsaken ; 


I wouldna gie her in her scrk 


Thou ha^^t me forsaken, Jamie, 


For thee wi* a' thy thousand mark ; 


Thou hast me forsaken. 


Ye need na look sae high. 


Thou canst love another jo, 


Tibbie, I hae, §-c. 


While my heart is breaking: 




Soon my weary een I'll close. 




Never more to waken, Jamie, 


^— 


Never more to waken. 






TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray 


TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 




That lov'st to greet the early racrn ! 


THIS SONG I COMPOSED ABOUT THE A ^E OF 


Again thou usher'st in the day. 


SEVENTEEN. 


My Mary from my sou! was torn. 
Oh, Mary, dear departed shade ! 


TVfK— *• Invercald's reel 


Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 




Sec'st thoH thy lover lowly laid ? 


O TibUe, I hat seen the day 


Hear'st thou the groans that rend hit oreaaf , 


Ye wadna been sae shy ; 




For laik o' gear ye lightly me. 


That sacred hour can I forget ? — 


But truwth, 1 care na by. 


Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 




Wheie, by the winding Ayr, we met. 

To live one day of parting .ove ? 
Eternity will not efface 


• The Highlanders of the Isles. 

t This smgular figure of poetry, taken from the 


mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Py- 


Those records dear (jf transports past j 


thagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled tri- 
angle, the square of the hypothenuse is always equal 
to the souares of the two other sides. 


Thy image at our last embrace ; — 
Ah ! little thought ^e 'twas our last J 


J 



240 



BURNS' WORKS, 



Ayr, gurgling;, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhuntr with wild wo ids thickening green ; 
The fi-agrant birch, the hawthorn hoar, 

Twined amormis round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprung wanton to be prest, 

The birds sung love on every spray; 
TiU too, too soon the glowing west 

Proclaitn'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?* 



TRUE HEARTED WAS HE. 

Tune-^" Bonnie Dundee." 

r&UE hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 
Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding 
river, 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; 
I'o equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seok it in vain, 
Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover, 
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning. 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger, 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 
Tjfu—" Here awa, there awa." 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie I 
Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame ! 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie ; 
Ttll me thou bring' st me my Willie again. 

VTiNTZR winds blew loud and cauld at our part- 
ing ; 
Feart for my Willie brought tears in my ee : 
Welcome now, svt:nmer, and welcome, my Willie ; 
The summer to nature, and Willie to me. 
Here, awa, Sec. 



Rest, ye wild storms, in tie cavei of jronr deM' 

hers ! 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my armi^ 
Here awa, Sfc. 

But, oh, if he's faithless, and minds na hisNannie^ 
Flow still between us, thou dark heaving main! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! 
Here awa, Sfc, 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; 
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear , 

Love thou hast pleasures ; and deep hae I loved ; 
Love thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest, 

O if I were, where happy I hae been ; 
Down by yon stream and you bonnie castle green 
For there he is wand'riug and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry th2 tear frae his Phillis's m 



* To Mary Campbell, one of Burns's earliest and 
'nsf bfloved lYiistresses, a dairy-maid in the neigh 

v.rh .'ii,! ■, f Mossgie!. ^ee fanher parlicuiars in liie 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
Wr AN AULD MAN. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a yor.ng 
lassie. 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
Bad luck on the pentiie that tempted my miunie 
To sell her poor Jenny tor wilier an' Ian' ! 
Sad luck on the pennie, §-c. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin. 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day ling. 

He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, 
O' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, 8fc. 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers; 

I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows, 

O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! 
Had luck on the pennie, ^c. 

My auld auMtie Katie upon me takes pity, 

I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan j 
IMI cross him, and wrack him, until I heart, 
break him, 
And then his auld bra«« will buy me a new pwfe 
Bad luck on the pennie, ^x. 



SONGS. 



24l 



WU\ IS TFIA 



MY ROWER DOOR. 



'I Hi> tune is al^o known by the name of Laas 
xn I come near thee. The words are uiioe. 

Wha is that at my bwver door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay ; — 
Then gae your gate ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo* Findlay ; — 
Before the morn ye'U work mischief ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in. quo* Findlay ; — 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will 1, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay ? 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ;— 
I tear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain ? 

I'll remain, quo' Fiodlay ; — 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; 
What may pass within this bower ; 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ;— 
Ye maun conceal 'till your last ixoiir ; 

Indeed will I, quo* Findlay ! 



WHEN GUILDFORD OOODi 



A FRAGMENT. 



Killicrankie. 

When Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man : 
Down Ijowrie's burn he took a turn. 

And C'urleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man ; 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his enemies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gaffe, within a cage. 
Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 

rill Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 
For Fhiladeljihia, man : 

Wi* sword an' gun he thought a sin 
Olid Christian blood to draw, mui; 



Hut at Ne-c York, wi' knife and fork, 
Sir-loin he ha(;ked sma', man. 

BnTg(tyne gaed jp, like spur an' whip. 

Till Fraser brave <lid fa' man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Ciir7twallis fought as lang's he donght, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clintons glaive frae rust to save, 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, an' Guildford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure. wha stood the stoura^ 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Bmke, like onie Turk, 

Nae men-y hud at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box. 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shdburne meek held up his chedk, 

Conform to gospel law, man. 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. 

They did his measures thraw, man. 
For North and Fox united stocks. 

And bo(; liim to the wa', man. 

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's carter 

He swept the stakes awa', man. 
Till the diamond's ace of Indian tslss. 

Led him a sair^awx pas, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 

Behind the throne then GrenvilWa gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the claKt 

Be-north the Roman wa', man i 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 

Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man ?" 

But word an' blow. North, Pox, and CW. 

Gow*T'd Willie like a ba', man. 
Till Suthrons raise, and coost their cl.ute 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
Au* Caledon threw by the drone, 

An* did bar whittle draw, man ; 
An* Kwoor ^* rude, thru' dirt and bkoi 

To make it guid in law, inaa. 



242 



BURNS' WORKS. 



WHERE ARE THE JOYS ! HAE MET 
IN THE MORNING. 

Tune — •• Saw ye my father." 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning. 
That dance-1 to the lark's early song ? 

Where is tlie |K'u;e that awaited my wandering, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair ; 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad-sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And glim surly winter is near? 
No, no, the bees humming rouud the gay roses. 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me. my griefs are immortal. 
Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish. 
Enjoyment Til seek in my woe. 



WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, 
MY LAD 

O whistle and Fll come to you, wy lad*, 
O whistle and Vll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho'' fnthir and mit/ier and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle and fll come to you, my lad. 

Bui warily tent when ye come to court me, 
And come nae unless the back-yett be ajee ; 
Syne up the back style, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
Anc. come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
O whistle, 8j-c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'ee, 
Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. 
Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. 
O whistle, 8fc. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, tho* jokin ye be. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
O whistle, 8fc' 



• In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus ; 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, nrjy jo; 
i ro" father and mother and a' should say no, 
•^ whi"itle and I'll come to thee, my ja 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MACT 

This air is Masterton's ; the song mine.— 
The occasion of it was this : — Mr. Wm. Nicol.; 
of the High School, Edinburgh, during the a»> 
tumn vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, 
who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, 

and I went to pay Nicol a visit We had such 

a joyous meeting, that Mr. Masterton and 
agreed, each in our own way, that we shouU 
celebrate the business. 

O Willie brew'd peck o maut, 

And Rob and Allan cam to see ; 
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are nafou, we're na that fou. 

But just a drappie in our ee ; 
The cock may craw, the day may dav 
And ay we'll tarte the barley bree. 

Here are we met, tLree merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trou are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been. 

And mony mae we hope to be ! 

We are nafou, Sfc. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn. 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie. 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame^ 
But by my sooth she'll wait a we ! 
We are na fou, Sfc. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa*, 

f e is the king amang us three ! 
We are nafou, Sfc. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Tune—" The Sutor'i Dochter." 

Wii.T thou be my dearie : 

When sorrow wrings thy ^iitle hesr^ 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee : 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shdll ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain. 
Say na thou'lt refuse me j 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may chouae me^ 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me ; 
Lassie let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SONGS- 



843 



WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY 
MARY ? 

Tune—" The Yowe-buchts." 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go the Indies, my Mary, 

Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange^ 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a the- charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn hy the heavens, my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the heavens forget me, 
Wlien I forget my vow ! 

O, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

O, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join ; 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour and the moment o' time ! * 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide. 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

Clyde,* 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
4nd the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 

his reed : 

Where the grouse, Sfc. 

Not Gowrie*8 rich valley, nor Perth's sunny 

shores, 
To me hae the charms o* yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For the #, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream, 
Reside « sweet lassie, my thought and my 
'"4€am. 
For there, Sfc. 

Amang 'bae wild mountains shall still be my 

j/ath, 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 

strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded, flie the swift hours o' 

love. 

For there, Sfe. 



♦ When Bums was designing his voyage to the 
West Indies, he wrote this song as a fareweU to a girl 
whom he happened to regard, at the time, with con- 
tiderable admiration. He afterwards sent it to Mr. 
Thomson for publication in his splendid collection of 
the national mu&ic and musical }U)etrv of Scotland. 



She is not the fairest, altho* she is fair ; 
O* nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es ma. 
Her parentage, §•<?. 



To beauty what man but maun yield him • 

prize. 
In .her armour of glances, and blushes, and 

sighs ; 
And when wit and refinement hae polished hei 

darts. 
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. 
And when wit, ^c. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark* 

ling e'e. 
Has huitre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd it 

her arms, 
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms 
And the heart-heating, jrc 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 
Vwte—" Jockie was the biythost ImL*" 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

I-T a' o»ir town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu* lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my e'en sae bonoje blue. 

He roos'd my waist sae genty tmc j 
An* ay my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost aad snaw 
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca*. 
An' ay the uiglit comes round again, 

When in his arms he taks me a* ; 
An' ay he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



YOUNG PEGGY 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest laH) 

Her blush is like the morning. 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With eaily gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower. 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 
A richer die has grac'd them, 

They charm th' admiring gazer's sigl 
And sweetly tempt to taste them r 



ihA 



bUitiNb UOKKS. 



fler smile is as the ev'ning mild, 
When feather'd pairs are courting, 

knd little lambkins wanton wild. 
In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winninti; pow'rs to lessen : 
And fretful envy a:rins in vain, 

The poisonM tout h to fasten. 



Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and .|lVllt^ 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favour'd youtk 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom.* 



* This was one of the peers enrliest composition* 
It is copied from a MS. book, which he had before ll^ 



t 



Tim CORRESPONDENCE. 



NOTICE 



Or the following letters of Burns, a consid- 
•rable nunober were transmitted for publication, 
by the individuals to whom they were addressed ; 
3ut very few have been printed entire. It will 
sasily be believed, that in a series of letters writ- 
ten without the least view to publication, va- 
rious passages were found unfit for the press, 
from diflferent considerations. It will also be 
readily supposed, that our Poet, writing nearly 
at the same time, and under the same feelings 
to different individuals, would sometimes fall 
into the same train of sentiment and forms of 
expression. To avoid, therefore, the tedious- 
Qess of such repetitions, it has been found ne- 
cessary to mutilate many of the individual let- 
ters, and sometimes tu exscind parts of great 
delicacy — the unbridled effusions of panegyric 
tnd regard. But though many of the letters 
are printed from originals fiirnished by the per- 
sons to whom they were addressed, others are 
printed from first draughts, or sketches, found 
among the papers of our Bard. Though in ge- 
nera, no man committed his thoughts to his 
correspondents with less consideration or effort 
than Burns, yet it appears that in some instances 
he was dissatisfied with his first essays, and 
wrote out his communications in a fairer cha- 
racter, or perhaps in more studied language. 
In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the 
original sketches were found ; and as these 
•ketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be 
considered as the offspring of his mind, where 
they have seemed in themselves worthy of a 
place in this volume, and they have been in- 
serted, though they may not always correspond 
exactly with the letters transmitted, which have 
been lost or withheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have form- 
ed an intention of making a collection of his 
letters for the amusement of a friend. Accord- 
ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of 
them into a book, which he presented to Ro- 
oert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these 
was the account of his life, addressed to Dr. 
Moore, and printed in the Life. In copying 
from his imperfect sketches (it does not appear 
that he had the letters actually sent to his cor- 
'wpundents before him) he seems to hava occa- 



sionally enlarged his observations, and altcredl 
his expressions. In such instances his emenda* 
tions have been adopted ; but in truth there arc 
but five of the letters thus selected by the poet, 
to be found in the present volume, the rest be- 
ing thought of inferior merit, or otherwise unfit 
for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the Editor has found 
some corrections of grammar necessary ; but 
these have been very few, and such as may be 
supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even 
of literary characters, who have not been in the 
habit of carrying their compositions to the press. 
These corrections have never been extended to 
any habitual modes of expression of the Poet, 
even where his phraseology may seem to violate 
the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of our lan- 
guage, which he wrote in general with great 
accuracy. Some difference will indeed be found 
in this respect in his earlier and in his later 
compositions ; and this volume will exhibit the 
piogress of his style, as well as the history of 
his mind. In this Edition, several new letters 
were introduced not in Dr. Currie's Edition, 
and which have been taken from the works of 
Cromek and the more recent publishers. The 
series commences with the Bard's Love Lettcn 
— the first four being of that description. They 
were omitted from Dr. Currie s Edition j why, 
has not been explained. They have been held 
to be sufficiently interesting to be here inserted. 
He states the issue of the courtship in these terms : 
— " To crown my distresses, a belle Jille whom I 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me 
in the field of matrimony, jilted me with pecu- 
liar circumstances of mortification." Mr. Lock 
hart remarks of the letters: — " They are surely 
as well worth preserving, as many in the Col 
lection ; particularly when their early date is 
considered." — He then quotes from them large- 
ly, and adds, — '* In such excellent English did 
Burns woo his country maidens, in at most his 
20th year." But we suspect the fault of the 
English was, that it was too good. It was too 
coldly correct to suit the taste of the fair maiden ; 
bad the wooer used a sprinkling of his native 
tongue, with a deeper infusion of his constitutiou> 
al enthusiasm, he might have had more success 



LETTERS, &C. 



LOVE LETTERS. 

No. 1. 

(WRITTIN ABOUT THE TEAR 1780.) 

> rxRiLY btlieve, my dear Eliza, that the pure 
|cuuine feelings of love, are as rare in the 
florid as the pure genuine principles of virtue 
ind piety. This, I hope, will account for the 
ancoramon style of all my letters to you. By 
incommon, I mean, their being written in such 
1 serious manner, which, to tell you the truth, 
las made me often afraid lest you should take 
ne for a realous bigot, who conversed with his 
nistress as he would converse with his minis- 
er. I don't know how it is, my dear ; for 
hough, except your company, there is nothing 
n earth that gives me so much pleasure as 
■:rriting to you, yet it never gives me those 
|iddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. 
1 have often thought, that if a well-grounded af- 
fection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- 
tJung extremely a-kin to it. Whenever the 
tLyught of my Eliza warms my heart, every 
fojling of humanity, every principle of genero- 
v!'y, kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every 
a ty spark of malice and envy, which are but 
too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature 
in the arms of universal benevolence, and equal- 
ly participate in the pleasures of the happy, and 
sympathise with the miseiies of the unfortunate. 
I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the 
di\nne Disposer of events, with an eye of gra- 
titude for the blessing which I hope he intends 
U bestow on me, in bestowing you. I sincere- 
ly wish that he may bless my endeavours to 
make your life as comfortable aii^ happy as 
possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts 
of my natural temper, and bettering the un- 
kindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my 
•lear, is a passion, at least in r / view, worthy 
of a man, and I will add, worthy of a Chris- 
tian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love 
to a woman's person, whilst, in reality, his af- 
fection is centered iu her pocket ; and the sla- 
vish drudge may go a- wooing as he goes to the 
norse market, to choose one who is stout and 
firm, and, as we may say of an old horse, one 
«rho will be a good drudge and draw kindly, 
disdain their lirty, pr-'y ideas. I would be 



heartily out of humour with myself, If f tDotig# 
I were capable of having so poor a notion o« 
the sex, which were designed to crown th« 
pleasures of society. Poor dev'S ! I don't envy 
them their happiness who hare such notions 
For my part, I propose quite other pleasuret 
with my dear partner. ..•••• 



No. II. 
TO THE SAME. 

MY DEAR ELIZA, 

I DO not remember in the course of your «o« 
quaintance and mine, ever to have heard youi 
opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst peo])le of our station of life : . do not 
mean the persons who proceed in the way of 
bargain, but those whose aifection is rea Jv pla<- 
ccd on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
very au-kwnrd lover myself, yet as I havi; some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of others 
who are much better skilled in the alfair of 
courtship than I am, I often think it is owing 
to lucky chance more than to good manage- 
ment, that there are not more unhappy mar- 
riages than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
acquaintance of ^.he females, and customary foi 
him to keep them company when occasion serves j 
some one of them is more agreeable to him than 
the rest ; there is something, he knows not 
what, pleases him, h knows net how, in het 
company. This 1 take to be what is called love 
with the greatest part of us, and I must own, 
my dear Eliza, it is a hard game such a one as 
you have to play when you meet with such a 
lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and 
yet though you use him ever so favourably, per- 
haps in a few months, or at farthest in a yeai 
or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make 
him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you 
are quite forgot. I am aware, that perhaps the 
next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you 
may bi4 me take my own lessoo home, and tell 
me that the passion I hiue piofessed tor you is 
perhaps one of thosH transient ilashcK 1 have 



248 



BURNS' WOUKb. 



l)Lin (!ts«ribing ; liut T hope, my dear Eliza, 
V'lii will do me the justice to believe me, when 
1 assure you, that the love I have for you is 
'ouufled on the sacred principles of virtue and 
aonour, and by consequence, so long as you con- 
tio" possessed of those amiable qualities which 
first inspired my passion for you, so long must I 
continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it 
is love like this alone which can render the mar- 
ri»'d state hapjjy. People may talk of flames and 
raptures as long as they please ; and a warm 
fancy witt a flow of youthful spirits, may make 
them feel sometbing like what *^'"°v describti ; 
but sure I am, the nobler faculties of tne mind, 
with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be 
the foundation of friendship, and it has always 
been my opinion, that the married life was only 
friendship in a more exalted degree. 

If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, 
and it should please providence to spare us to 
the latest periods of life, I can look forward 
and see, that even then, though bent down 
with wrinkled age ; even then, when all other 
worldly circumstances will be indifferent to nie, 
I will regard my Eliza with the tenderest af- 
fection, and for this plain reason, because she 
is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- 
proved to a much higher degree, which first 
inspired my affection for her. 

" O : *.^/"v state, when souls each other draw, 
" When love is liberty, and nature law." 

1 knrw, were I to speak in such a style to 
many a girl who thinks herself possessed of no 
small share of sense, she would think it ridi- 
culous — but the language of the heart is, ray 
dear Eliza, the only courtship I shall ever use 
M you. 

When I look over what I have written, I ara 
sensible it is vastly different from the ordinary 
style of courtship — but I shall make no apolo- 
gy — I know your good nature will excuse what 
^uui good sense may see amiss. 



So. IIL 
TO THE SAME. 

MT DEAR KLIKA, 

I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly uu- 
mcky circumstance in love, that though, in 
every other situation in life, telling the truth is 
not only the safest, but actually by far the easi- 
est way of proceeding, a lover is never under 
greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for 
expression, than when his passiiiu is sincere, 
and his intentions are honourable. 1 do not 
think that it is very diflRcult for a person of or- 
dinary capacity to talk of love and fondness, 
which are not felt, and to make vows of oon- 
ttancy and fidelity, which are never intendec' to 



be performeil, if he be villain enoui^ to orae. 
tise such detestable conduct : but to a mau 
whose heart glows with the principles of in> 
tegrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a 
woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement 
of sentiment, and purity of manners — to such a 
one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, 
my dear, from my own feelings at this present 
moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is 
such a number of foreboding feais, and distrust- 
ful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in 
your company, or when I sit down to wiite to 
you, that what to speak or what to write I am 
iltogether at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto prac- 
tised, and which I shall invariably keep witt 
you, and that is, honestly to fell you the plain 
truth. There is something so mean and an- 
manly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood, 
that I am surprised they can be used by any one 
in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous 
love. No, my dear Eliza, I shall never endea- 
vour to gain your favour by such detestable 
practices. If you will be so good and so gener- 
ous as to admit me for your partner, your com- 
panion, your bosom friend through life ; there 
is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me 
greater transport ; but I shall never think of 
])urchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of 
a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is 
one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of 
you, and it is this ; that you would soon either 
put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, 
or cure me of my fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send 
me a line or two when convenient. I shall on- 
ly add further, that if a behaviour regulated 
(though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the 
rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to 
love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour 
to promote your happiness ; and if these are 
qudities you would wish in a friend, in a hus- 
band ; 1 hope you shall ever find them in yoAt 
kmI friend and sincere lover. 



No. IV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I OUGHT in good manners to have acknoir 
ledged the receipt of your letter before this time, 
but my heart was so shocked with the contents 
of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts 
so as to write to you on the subject. I will not 
attempt to describe what I felt on receiving you/ 
letter. I read it over and over, again and agam 
afld though it was in the politest language of re- 
fusal, still it was peremptory ; " you were sorry 
you could not make me a return, but you wish 
me" wha^, without you, I never can obtain, 
*' you wish me all kind of happiness." It would 
be weak and unmanly to say, that without you I 
never can be happy ; but sure I am that itxM 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



ing life with you, woul«l have given it a relish, 
that, wan^-ing you, I never can taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
your superior pood sense, do not so much strike 
me ; these, jiossihly in a few instances, may be 
met with in others ; but that amiable goodness, 
that tender feminine softness, that endearing 
sweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
oCspring of a warni feeling heart — these I never 
again expect to meet with in such a degree in 
this world. All these charming qualities, heigh- 
tened by an education much beyond any thing 
I liave ever met with in any woman I ever dar- 
ed to approach, have made an impression on my 
heart that I do not think the world can ever ef- 
fece. RIy imagination has fondly flattered itself 
with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a 
hf)pe, that possibly I might one day call you 
mine. I had formed the most delightful images, 
and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but 
now I am wretched for the loss of what I really 
had no right expect. I must now think no 
mure of you as a mistress, still I presume to ask 
to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to 
be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to 
remove in a few days a little farther off, and you, 
I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I 
wish to see yoti or hear from you soon ; and if 
an expression should perhaps escape me rather 
to« warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon 

it in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the dear 

expression for once.) 



LETTERS, 1783, 1784. 

No. V. 
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 
STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

DEAR SIR, Lochhe, \bth January^ 1783. 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter, without {)utting you to that expense 
which any production of mine would but ill re- 
pay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that 
' have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the 
many obligjations I lie under to your kindness 
and friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the pains 
of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher; 
and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with 
such a recital as yoa would be pleased with ; 
but that is what I am afraid will not be the ease. 
I have, indeeii, kept pretty clear of vicious ha- 
bits ; and in this respect, I hope, my conduct 
will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; 
but as a man of the world, I am most miserably 
deficient. — One wouM have thought, that bred 
t» I have been, uuder -i father wlio has figured 



pretty well as un homme iJes affaires, 1 tnjghl 
have been what the world calls & pushing, ac- 
tive fellow ; but, to tell you the truth, Sir, 
there is hardly any thing more my reverse. I 
seem to be one sent into the world to see, and 
observe ; and I very easily compound with the 
knave who tricks me of uiy money, if there be 
iny thing original about him which shows me 
human nature in a different light from any thing 
I have seen before. In short, the joy of my 
heart is to " study men, their manners, and theii 
ways;" and for this darling subject, I cheer- 
fully sacrifice every other consideration. I am 
quite indolent about those great concerns that 
set the bustling busy sons of care agog ; and il 
I have to answer for the present hour, I am very 
easy with regard to any thing further. Even 
the last, worst shift * of the unfortunate and 
the wretched, does not much terrify me : I know 
that even then my talent for what country folks 
call " a sensible crack," when once it is sancti- 
fied by a hoary head, would procure me so much 
esteem, that even then — I would learn to be 
happy. However, I am under no apprehensions 
about that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as 
an extremely delicate constitution permits, I am 
not lazy ; and in many things, especially in ta- 
vern matters, I am a strict economist ; not in- 
deed for the sake of the money, but one of the 
principal parts in my composition is a kind of 
pride of stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of 
any man living : above every thing, I abhor as 
hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a 
dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, whe 
in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and 
this alone, that endears economy to me. In the 
matter of books, indeed, I am veiy profuse. My 
favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, 
such as Shenstone, particularly his Ehcfies ,- 
Thomson ; Man of Fteling, a book I prize next 
to the Bible; Man of the World; Sterne, 
especially his Sentimental Journey ; Macpher- 
son's Ossian, 8fc. These are the glorious mo- 
dels aftfc. which I endeavour to form my con- 
duct; and 'tis lacogruous, 'tis absurd, to sup- 
pose that the man whose mind glows with sen- 
timents lightened up at their sacred flame — th« 
man whose heart distends with benevolence to 
all the human race — he " who can soar above 
this little scene of things," can he descend te 
mind the paltry concerns abcv* which the ••.err*- 
filial race fret, and fume, apd vex themselves? 

how the glorious triumph swells my heart ^ 

1 forget that I am a poor insignificant devil, un- 
noticed and' unknown, stalking up and dowc 
fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, 
reading a page or two of mankind, and " catch- 
ing the manners living as they rise," whilst the 
men of business jostle me on every side as an 
idle encumbrance in their way. — But I dare say 
I have by this time tiied your patience ; so 
shall conclude with oegging you to give Mrs 



* Thela'^t shift alluded to here, must be the ccaid 
ion of an itinerant beesar 

R2 



25C 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Murdoch — not iny compliments, for that is a 
mere coinmon-placv'; story, but — my warmest, 
kindest wisl\es for hsr welfare ; and accept of 
the same fur yourself, from, 

Dear Sir, 

Yours, &c. 



No VI. 



[the following is taken from the MS. 

PROSE PRESENTED BV OUR BARD TO MR. 
RIDDEL.] 

On rummaging c^/er some old papers, I light- 
ed on a MS. of my early years, in which I had 
determined to write iiyseU' out, as I was placed 
by fortune among a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant 
that the book should have lain by me, in the 
»>>nd hope that, some time or other, even after I 
Vi>s no more, my thoughts would fall into the 
h» n:is of somebody capable of appreciating their 
val>ie. It sets off thus : 

Ob-^ervations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poe- 
try, 8fc. by R. B. — a man who had little art in 
making money, and !.till less in keeping it ; but 
was, however, a man of some sense, and a great 
deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to 
every creature, rational and iriational. As he 
was but little indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough-tail, hi> performances must 
be strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic 
way of life ; but as I believe they are really his 
owuy it may be some entertainment to a curious 
observer of humiin nature, to see how a plough- 
man thinks and feels, under the pressure of love, 
ambition> anxiety, grief, with the like cares and 
passii>ns-. which, however diversified by the 
»>o</'s and manners of life, operate pretty much 
w'rike, I believe, on all the species. 

" There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a figure, so iiuch as an 
opinion of their own abilities, to put them upon 
recording their observations, and ailowing them 
the same importance which they do to those 
which appear in print." — Sh^nstone. 

•' Pleasing, wher. youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! 

Such was cur youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." 

Ibid. 

April, 1783. 

Notwithstanding all thiit has bten said against 
k)ve, respecting the folly and we.ikness it leads 
a young inexperienced mind into ; still I think it 
in a great measure deserves the highest enco- 
miums that have been pas-.td on it. If any 
thing on earth deserves the n^ime of taptnre or 
transport, it is the feelings of i^recn ciglteen, in 
Mip compaiy i^f the mistress o.^' his hear" ui/^ , 



she repays him with an equal return of 

tion. 



. iugvst. 
There is certainly some connection between 
love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, I 
have always thought a fine toucl of nature, that 
passage in a modern love composition : 

•* As tow'rd her cot, he jogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song. " 

For my own part, I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turning poet, till I got 
once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and song 
were, in a manner, the spontaneous language ol 
my heart. 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory qj 
Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well, under those calamities, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes 
have made us miserable and wretched, to bea"* 
up with manly firmness, and at the same time 
have a proper penitential sense of our miscon- 
duct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an* 

guish. 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say — " It was no ileed of mine ;*' 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — " Blame thy foolish self! * 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others 
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved ua. 
Nay, more, that very love their ca ise of ruin I 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments- 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his hear* 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment. 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peao* < 
O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul. 



3fa> %, 1794. 

I have often observed, in the course of my 

-xperience of human life, that every man, even 

the worst, has something good about him ; 

tiiMiioh v^-y often nothing else than a haiipj 



CORR£?,PONDENCE. 



25 i 



teinpera>nent cf constitution inclining him to 
this or that virtue. For this reason, no man 
can say iu what degree any other peason, be- 
sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called 
wicked. Let any of the strictest character for 
regularity of conduct among us, examine im- 
partially how many vices he has never been 
guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but 
for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir- 
cumstance intervening ; how many of the weak- 
nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he 
was out of the line of such temptation ; and, 
what often, if not always weighs more than ali 
the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's 
good opinion, because the world dues not know 
all : I say, any man who can thus think, will 
scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of 
mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of 
that part of mankind commonly known by the 
(i'dinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes far- 
ther than was consistent with the safety of my 
character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- 
lity or headstrong passions, have beea driven 
to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, 
sometimes '' stained with guilt, .... 
. . . . ," I have yet found among them, 
in not a few instances, some of the noblest vir- 
tues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested 
friendship, and even modesty. 



April. 

As I am what the men of the world, if th»y 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- 
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to 
myself, or some here and there such other out- 
of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar plea- 
sure I take in the season of winter, more than 
the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be 
partly owing to my misfortunes giving my 
mind a melancholy cast : but there is some- 
thing even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried 

earth,"— 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to every thing great and noble. 
There is scarcely any earthly object gives me 
more — I do not know if I should call it plea- 
sure — but something which exalts me, some- 
thing which enraptures me — than to walk in 
the sheltered side of the wood, or high planta- 
tion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the 
stormy wind howling among the trees, and 
fiviug over the plain. It is my best season 
for devotion : ray mind is wrapt up in a kind 
of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous 
language of the Hebrew bard, '* walks on the 
wings of the wind.' In on: of these sea»c)»^ 



just after a train of nisfurtunes, I composed 
the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c. 
See Songs. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love- verses, 
writ without any real passion, are the most 
nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often 
thought that no man can be a proper critic o< 
love-composition, except he himself, iu one or 
more instances, hive been a warm votary of 
this pxssion. As I have been ail along a 
miserable dupe to love, and have been led into 
a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for 
that reason I put the more confidence in my 
critical skill, in distinguishing foppery, and con- 
ceit, from real passion and nati re. Whethet 
the following song will stand the test, I will 
not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only 
I can say it was at the time, genuine from the 
heart. 



Behind yon hills, &c. 



See Songs. 



I think the whole species of young men may 
be naturally enough divided into two grand 
classes, which I shall call the grave and the 
merry ; though, by the bye, tljese terms do not 
with propriety enough express my ideas. The 
grave I shall cast into the usual division o{ 
those who are goaded on by the love of money, 
and those whose liHrling wish is to make a 
figure in the world. The merry are, the men 
of pleasure of all denominations ; the jovial 
lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have 
any settled rule of action ; but without much 
deliberation, follow the strong impulses of na- 
ture ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indo- 
lent — in particular he, who, with a happy 
sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful va- 
cancy of thought, steals through life — generally, 
indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty 
and olwcurity are only evils to him who can 
sit gravely down and make a repining compa- 
rison between his own situation and that of 
others ; and lastly to grace the quorum, such 
are, generally, those heads are capable of all 
the towerings of geuius, and whose heitrts tu-c 
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is to cultivate 
an intercourse with that Being to whom we 
owe life, with •^very enjoyment that can render 
hfe delightful ; and to maintain an integritive 
conduct towards our fellow- creatures ; that so, 
by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may 
be fit members for that society of the pious and 
th*> good, which reason and revelation teach ufl 
to expect beyond the grave : I do not see thai 
the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of po. 
verty and obscurity, are in the least nw e inimi 



252 



BURNS' WORKS. 



eal to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, 
than the, even lawful, bustling and straining 
after the world's riches and honours ; and I do 
not see but that he nay gain Heaven as well 
(which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), 
who steals through the vale of life, amusing 
himself with every little flower that fortune 
throws in his way ; as he who, straining straight 
jforward, and perhaps bespattering all about him, 
gains some of life's little eminences ; where, af- 
tei all, he can only see, and be seen, a little more 
conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his 
heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil 
he has left behind him. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which 
shows them to be the work of a masterly hand : 
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to 
reflect, that such glorious old bards — bards who 
very probably owed all their talents to native 
geiiius, yet have described the exploits of he- 
roes, the pangs of disappointment, and the melt- 
ings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — 
that their very names (O how mortifying to a 
bald's vanity!) are now " buried among the 
wreck of things which were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well ; the last, 
the meanest of the muses' train — one who, 
tuuiign tar inferior to your flights, yet eyes your 
oath, and with trembling wing would sometinieii 
6oar after you — a poor rustic bard unknown, 
pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! 
Some of you tell us, with all the charms of 
ver.se, that you have been unfortunate in the 
world — unfortunate in love : he too has felt the 
loss of his '.'.'.Ce fortune, the loss of friends, and. 
Worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. 
Like you, all his consolation was his muse : she 
taught him in rustic measures to complain. 
Happy could he have done it with your strength 
of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf 
lie lightly on your bone^ ! and may you now 
enjoy that solace and rest which this world sel- 
dom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings 
of poesy and love I 



This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and 
more than all. 

R. B. 



for your silence and neglect ; I shall only *ijr i 
received yours with great pleasure. I have en 
closed you a piece of rhyming w&re for youi 
perusal. I have been \ery busy with the niusea 
since I saw you, and have composed, among se- 
veral others, The Ordination, a poem on Mr. 
M'Kinlay's being called to Kilinainock ; Scotch 
Drink, a poem ; The. CMter's Saturday Night ; 
An Address to the Devil, &c. I have likewise 
completed my poem on the Dogs, but have not 
shewn it to the world. My chief patron now 
is Mr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express 
great approbation of my works. Be so good as 
send me Fergusson, by Connel,* and I ',^'11 re- 
mit you the money. 1 have no news to ac- 
quaint you with about Mauchline, they are just 
going on in the old way. I have some very im- 
portant news with respect to myself, not the 
most agreeable, news that I am sure you cannot 
guess, but I shall give you the particulars an- 
other time. I am extremely happy with Smith ;f 
he is the only friend I have now in Mauchline. 
I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, 
i-zd I beg you will let me hear from you regu- 
larly by Connel. If you would act your part aa 
a FRIEND, I am sure neither good nor bad for 
tune should strange or alter me. Excuse haste, 

as I got yours but yesterday 1 urn, 

My dear Sir, 
Yours, 
ROBt. BURNESS.t 



No. VIIL 



TO MR. M*WHINNIE, Writer, At». 

Mossgiel, nth April, 1786. 

It is injuring some hearts, those liearts that 
elegantly bear the impression of the good Crea- 
tor, to say to them you give them the trouble 
of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell 
you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting 
your friendly offices with respect to the enclosed, 
because I know it will gratify yours to assist 
me in it to the utmost of your power. 

I have sent you four copies, as I have no lesi 
than eight dozen, which is a great deal more 
than I shall ever need. 

Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in 
your prayers. He looks forward with fear and 
trembling to that, to him, important moment 



• Connei— the Mauchline carrier. 

f Mr. Jamet Smith, then a shop-keeper in Mauen. 
line. It was to this young man that Bun s addressed 
wfle of his finest performances—" To J. S " be 

ginning 



LETTERS, 1786. 
No. VIL 
fO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, Edinburgh. 

MY DEAR sir, mo»sgiei, ren. i /, i /ro. ^^:^^^ ^^^ p^^^ ^^,^,g ^^^ termination ess lo his name 

I HAVE not time at present to upbraid you , as his father and family had spelled iU 



" Dear S , the sleest, paukie thief.' 

He died in the West-Indies. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



253 



vhicK stamps the die witb^with — with, per- 
liapa the eternal disgrace of, 
My dear Sir, 
You huinbledy 
afflicted, 
tormented 

robt. burns. 



No. IX. 
TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, Mauchlinb. 
Monday Morning^ Mossgtel, 1786. 

MT bEAR SIR, 

I WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday fully re- 
solved to take the opportunity of Capt. Smith ; 
but ^ound the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. 
White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged 
my plans altogether. They assure him that to 
send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio 
will cost my mastei, Charles Douglas, upwards 
of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of 
throwing myself into a pleuritic fever in conse- 
quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these 
accounts, he refuses sending me with Smitb, but 
a vessel sails fi-om Greenock the first of Sept. 
right for the place of my destination. The Cap- 
tain of her is an intimate of Mr. Gavin Hamil- 
ton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish : 
with him I am destined to go. Where I shall 
shelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the 
storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that 
fears them ! I know their worst, aud am pre- 
pared to meet it.— 

rU laugh, an* sing, an* shake my leg. 
As lang's I dow. 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as 
auch self-denial as to be out of bed about seven 
3*clock, I shall see you as I ride through to 
Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex ! 
I feel there is still happiness for me among 
them. — 

O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed you 
To' temper maa ! we had been brutes without 
you! 



No. X. 

TO MR. D\vro BRICK 

CKAR BRiCE, Mo$sgiel, June 12, 1786. 

I RECEIVED your message by G. Paterson, 
und as I am not very throng at present, I just 
write to let you know that there is such a worth - 
le»s, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, 
ttill in the land of the living, though I can 
ely sayy in the place of hope. I have no 



news to tell you that will give me any pleasure 
to mention or you to hear. 



And now for a grand cure ; the ship is on hef 
way home that is to take me out to Jamaica ' 
and then, farewell dear old Scotland, and fare- 
well dear ungrateful Jean, for never, never will 
I see you more. 

You will have heard that I am going to com- 
mence Poet in print ; and to-morrow my works 
go to the press. I expect it will be a volume oi 
about two hundred pages — it is just the last foo-- 
ish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise 
man as fa^ as possible. 

Believe me to be. 

Dear Brice, 
Your friend aud well-wi»her. 



No. XI. 



TO MR. AIKEN 

(thk gentleman to whom the cotter*! 
saturday night is addressed. ) 

SIR, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day. 
and settled all our by -gone matters between us. 
After I had paid him all demands, I made him 
the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of 
being paid out of the first and readiest, which 
he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven 
pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- 
teen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, 
if I will advance for the paper ; but this you 
know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes 
of a second edition till I grow richer ! — an 
epocha which, I think, will arrive at the pay- 
ment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much 
in being disappointed of my second edition, as 
not hav ng it in my power to show my grati. 
tude to Mr. Bailantyne, by publishing my poea 
of The Brigs of Ayr. I would detest mysel 
as a wretch, if I thought I were capable, in a 
very long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, 
and tender delicacy with which he enters into 
my interests. I am sometimes pleased with my- 
self in my grateful sensations ; but I believe, on 
the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my 
gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of re- 
flection, but sheerly the instinctive emotion of a 
heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxims 
and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotation* 
and movements within, respecting the excise, 
There are many things plead strongly against it ; 
the uncertainty of getting soon into business, the 
consequences of my follies, which may perhap* 
make it impracticable for me to stay at hpjiu> 



254 



TIURNS* WORKS. 



and l/frsides ' have for some time aeen pining 
under secret wretchedness, from t^auses which 
you pretty well know — the pang of disappoint- 
ment, the sting of pride, with some wandering 
stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on 
Biy vitals like vultures, when attention is not 
called away by the calls of society or the vaga- 
ries of the muse. Even in the hour of social 
mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxica- 
ted criminal und-jr the hands of the executioner. 
All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to 
all these reasons I have only one answer — the 
feelings of a father. This, in the present mt)od 
I am in, overbalances every thing that can be 
laid in the scale against it. 



gressive struggle ; and that, however 1 /night 
possess a warm heart and inoffensive mannen 
(which last, by the bye, was rather more than 
I could well boast), still, more than these pas- 
sive qualities, there was something to be done^ 
When all my school-fellows and youthful com 
peers ( tho>e misguided few excepted, who join- 
ed, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachores of 
the human race), were striking off with eager 
hope and earnest intent on some one or other 
of the m iny paths of busy life, I was " stand- 
ing idle in the market place," or only left the 
chase of the l)utterfly from flower tc flower, to 
hunt fuiicv from whim to whim. 



Ycr , may perhaps thmk it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul : though sceptical, in some 
points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I have 
every evidence for the reality of a life beyond 
the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if 
80, then how should I, in the presence of that 
tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how 
should I meet the reproaches of those who stand 
to me in the dear relation of children, whom I 
deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless in- 
fancy ? O, thou great unknown Power ! thou 
Almighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in 
my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! I 
have trequently Wandered from that order and 
regularity necessary for the perfection of thy 
works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken 
me ! 



You see, Sir. that if to know one's errors 
were a probability of mending them I stand a 
fair chance; l)ut, according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from alwayi 
implying it. * 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
seen something of the storm of mischief thick- 
ening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, 
my friends, my benefactors, be successful in 
your apph'cations for me, perhaps it may not be 
in my power in that way to reap the fruit of 
your friendly efforts. What I have written in 
the preceding pages is the settled tenor of my 
present resolution , but should inimical cir- 
cumstances forbid me closing with your kind 
offer, or, enjoymg it, only threaten to antail 
farther misery— 



To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
this last complaint, as the world, in general, 
has been kind to me, fully up to ray deserts. 
I was, for some time past, fast getting into the 
pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, 
ahrinkinii at every rising cloud in the chance- 
directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all de- 
fenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. 
It never occurred to me, at least never with the 
force it deserved, that this world is a busy 
icene, and man a creature destined for a pro- 



No. XII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP, 

MADAM, Ayrshire, 1786 

I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
when I was so much honoured with your order 
for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titillations of applause as the sons 
of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, 
when those whose character in life gives them 
a right to be polite judges, honour him with 
their approbation. Had you been thoroughly 
acquainted with me. Madam, you could not 
have touched my darling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- 
brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour oj 
his Country. 

** Great, patriot hero ! ill-requited chief." 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was The Life 
of Hannibal : the next was The History oJ 
Sir William Wallace : for several of my ear- 
lier years I had few other authors ; and many a 
solitary hour have I stole out, after the labou- 
ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear over 
their gloiious but unfortunate stories. In those 
boyish days I remember in particulai being 



• This letter was evidently written a^tter the rtis 
tress of mind occationed by our Poet's separation tcox. 
Mrs. Burns. 



CORRESPCNDENCE. 



S52 



•trntk with that part of Wallace's story where 
these lines occur — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
any line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen 
of miles to pay ray respects to the Leglen wood, 
with as miif.h devout enthusiasm as ever pil- 
grim did to Loretto : and, as I explored every 
den and dell where I could supposi; my heroic 
countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for 
even then I was a rhymer), that my heart glow- 
ed with a wish to be able to make a song on 
him in some measure equal to his merits. 



No. XIII. 
TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

MA BAM, 1786 

The hurry of my preparations for going a- 
broad has hindered me from performing my pro- 
mise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you 
a parcel of songs, fee. which never made their 
appearance, except to a friend or two at most. 
Perhaps some of them may be no great enter- 
tainment to you : but of that I am far from be- 
ing an adequate judge. The song to the tune 
vi Ettrick Banks, you will easily see the impro- 
priety of exposinsr much even in manuscript, 
I think, mysell, it Uas some merit, both as a to- 
lerable description of one of Nature's sweetest 
scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest 
pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest in- 
deed we know any thing of, an amiable, beauti- 
ful young woman ;• but I have no common 
friend to procure me that permission, without 
which I would not dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, Madam, what task the 
world would assign me in this .etter. The ob- 
scure bard, when any of the great condescend 
to take notice of him, should heap the alcar with 
the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, 
their own great and godlike qualities and actions, 
•hould be recounted with the most exagger.ited 
description. This, Madam, is a task for which 
I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain dis- 
qualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of 
yjv.i connections in life, and have no access to 
where your real character is to be found — the 
company of your compeers : and more, I am a- 
frsiid that even the most refined adulation is by 
no means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever 
with grateful pleasure remember — the reception 
I got, when I had the honour of waiting on you 
•t Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness ; 
but I know a go»d d'-al ot benevolence of tern - 
per and goodness of heart. Surely, did those in 
exalted stations know how happy they could 
make some classes of their inferiors by conde- 



• MiuA- 



scension and aflfiibility, they vould never stand 
so high, measuring out w .h every looK the 
height of their elevation, Out condescend aa 
sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair.* 



No. XIV. 



DR. BLACKLOCK 



TO 



THE REVEREND MR. G. LOWRIE 

REVFRENl) ANn DEAR SIR, 

I OUGHT to have tcknowledged your favoui 
long ag(», not only as a testimony of your kind 
rem^-nih! aiK-e. hut as it gave me an opportunity ol 
shariiis; nne of the finest, and, perhaps, one of the 
most genuine ciitfrraiiiinents, of which the human 
mind is susceptible. A number of avocations re- 
tarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, 
however, 1 have finished that pieasing perusal 
Many instances have I seen of Nature's force and 
beneficence exerted under numerous and formid- 
able disadvantages ; hut none equal to that with 
which you have been kind enough to present me. 
There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious 
poems, a vein of wit and humour in those of a 
more festive turn, which cannot be too much 
admired, nor too warmly approved ; and I think 
I shall never open the book without feeling my 
astonishment renewed and increased. It was my 
wish to have expressed my approbation in verse; 
but whether from declining life, or a temporary 
depression of spirits, it is at present oijt of my 
power to accomplish that agreeable intention. 

Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this Uni 
versity, had formerly read me three of the poems, 
and I had desired him to get my name inserted 
among the subscribers; but whether this was 
done, or not, I never could learn. I have littU 
intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care 
to have the poems communicated to him by the 
intervention of some mutual friend. It has beea 
told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the 
performances, and who sought a copy with dili- 
gence and ardour, that the whole impression it 
already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to 
be wished, for the sake of the young man, that 
a second edition, more numerous than the former, 
could immediately be printed ; as it appears cer- 
tain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of 
the author's friends, might give it a more uni- 
versal circulat} m than any thing of the kind 
which has been published within my memory. f 



♦ The song enclosed is that given in the Lifeof oui 
Poet; beginning, 

'TwM e'en— the dewy fields were green, &c. 

f T'.ie reader will perceive that this is the lettCJ 
which produced the determination of our Bant to give 
up his scheme of going to the West Indies, and to try 
the fate of a new edition of his poems in Edinburgh 
A -^py of this letter was sent by Mr. Lowrie to Mr. G 
Ha.nilton, and by him communicated to Burns, amon^ 
whose papers it was found. 



156 



■^ irvAik.c>« 



No. XV. 

FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. 

8-R, Edinhuryh, ith December, 1786. 

I RECEIVED your letter a few days ago. I do 
not pretend to much interest, but what I have 
I shill be ready to exert in procuring the attain- 
ment of any object you have in view. Your 
character as a man (forgive my reversing your 
order), as well as a poet, entitle you, I think, to 
the assistance of every inhabitant of Ayrshire. 
I have been told you wished to be made a gan- 
ger ; I submit it to your consideration, whether 
it would not be more desirable, if a sum could 
be raised by subscription, for a second edition of 
your poems, to lav it out in the stocking of a 
small farm. I am per^iaded it would be a line 
of life, much more agreeable to your feelings, and 
in the end more satisfactory. When you have 
considered this, let me know, and whatever you 
determine upon, I will endeavour to promote as 
far as my abilities will permit. With compli 
ments to my friend the doctor, I am, 

Your friend and well-wisher, 
JOHN WHITEFORD. 

P. S. — I shall take it as a favour when you 
hX any time send me a new production. 



No. XVI. 

FROM THE REV. MR. G. LOWRIE, 

DEAR SIR, 22c? December, 1786. 

/ LAST week received a letter from Dr. Black- 
cock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing 
you. I write this to you, that you may lose no 
time in waiting upon him, should you not yet 
have seen him. 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your 
rising fame, and I wish and expect it may tower 
still higher by the new publication But, as a 
friend, I warn you to prepare to meet with your 
share of detraction and envy — a train that al- 
ways accompany great men. For your comfort, 
I am in great hopes that the number of your 
friends and admirers will increase, and that you 
have some chance of ministerial, or even • • • • 
patronage. Now, my friend, such rapid success 
is very uncommon : and do you think yourself 
)C no (knger of suffering by applause and a full 
purse ? Remember Solomon's advice, which he 
spoke from experience, ** stronger is he that con- 
quers," &c. Keep fast hold of your rural sim- 
plicity and purity, like Telemachus by Mentor's 
aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in that of Cyprus. 
I hope you havt "'•<" Minerva with you. I 
need not tell you how much a modest diflF.dence 
tad invincible teuperance adorn the most shin- 



inf talents, and elevate the mind, a 4 exalt and 
refine the imagination even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from 
suspicion or evil report. I assure you 1 speak 
from love and good report, and good opiniooi 
and a strong desire to see you shine as much ?JI 
the sunshine as you have done in the shade, and 
in the practice as you do in the theory of virtue. 
This is my prayer, in return for your elegant 
composition in verse. All here join in compli 
ments, and good wishes for your further pros- 
perity. 



No. XVII. 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

MAUCHMNE. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 7, 1786. 

HONOURED SIR, 

I HAVE paid every attention to your com 
mands, but can only say what perhaps you will 
have heard before this rea'^h you, that Mui""- 
kirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. S. 
but for whom I know not ; Mauchlands, MaugN 
Miln, &c. by a Frederick Fotheringham, sup- 
posed to be for Ballochrayle Laird, and Adam- 
hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's 
fjiks. — This is so imperfect an account, and will 
be so late ere it reach you, that were it not to 
discharge my conscience I would not trouble 
you with it ; but after all my diligence 1 couH 
make it no sooner nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be- 
coming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John 
Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to set 
my birth-day inserted among the wonderful 
events, in the poor Robin's and Aberdeen AU 
manacks, along with the Black Monday, and the 

battle of Bothwell Bridge My lord Glencairn 

and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H- Erskine, have 
taken me under their wing ; and by all proba- 
bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the 
eighth wise man of the world. Through my 
lord's influence it is inserted in the records ot 
the Caledonian hunt, that they universally, one 
and all, subscribe for the second edition. — My 
subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you 
shall have some of them next post. — I have me* 
in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what Solomon 
emphatically calls, " A friend that sticketh 
closer than a brother." — The warmth with 
which he interests himself in my affairs is of the 
same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Ailcm, 
and the few patrons that took notice of my ear- 
lier poetic days, shewed for the poor unlucky 
devil uf a poet. 

1 always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miv 
Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but i/ou both m 
prose and verse. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



257 



May cauld ne'er carcli you but • a hap, 
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 
Amec ♦ 



No. XVIII. 
TO DR. M'KENZIE, Mauchlike. 

(enclosing him the extempore verses on 
dining with lord daer.) 

DEAR SIR, Wednesday Mnrning. 

I NEVER spent an afternoon among great 
{oiks with half that pleasure as when, in com- 
pany with you, I had the honour of paying niy 
devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the 
professor.f I would be delighted to see him 
perform acts of kindness and friendship, though 
I were not the object ; he does it with such a 
g^ace. I think his character, divided into ten 
parts, stands thus — four parts Socrates — four 
parts Nathaniel — and two parts Shakespeare's 
Brutus. 

The foregoing verses were really extempore, 
but a little coriected since. They may enter- 
tain you a little with the help of that partiality 
with which you are so good as favour the per- 
formances of 

Dear Sir, 

Your very humble Servant. 



No. XIX. 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Banker, 
Atr. 
Edinburgh, ^Sth Dec. 1786. 

MT HONOURED FRIEND, 

I WOULD not write you till I could have it 
in my power to give you some account of my- 
self and my matters, which by the bye is often 
no easy task. — I arrived here on Tuesday was 
ee'nnight, and have suffered ever since I came 
to town with a miserable head-ache and 
stomach complaint, but am now a good deal 
better. — I have found a worthy warm friend in 
Mr. Dahymple, of Orangetield, who introduced 
me to Lord Glencaira, a man whose worth and 
brocherly kindness to me, I shall remember 
wh«^n time shall be no more. — By his interest it 
is passed in the Caledonian hunt, and entered 
in their books, that they are to take each a 
copy of the second edition, for which they are 
lo pay one guinea — •! have been introduced to 
a good many of the Noblesse, but my avowed 
patrons and patronesses are, the Duchess of 



Gordon — The Countess of Glencairn, with my 
Lord, and Lady Betty* — The Dean of Faculty 
— Sir John Whitefoord. — I have likewise waiua 
friends among the literati ; Professors Stewart, 
Blair, and Mr. M'Kenzie — the Man of Feeling. 
— An unknown hand left ten guineas for th« 
Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, which I got. 
— I since have discovered my generous unknown 
friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq. brother to the 
Justice Clerk ; and drank a glass of claret with 
him by invitation at his own house yesternight. 
I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my 
book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I 
will send a siibscriptiou bill or two, next post ; 
when I intend writing my first kind patron, 
I\Ir. Aiken. I saw his son to-day and he is 
very well. 

Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned 
friends, put me in the periodical paper called 
the Lounger,f a copy of which I here enclose 
you — I was, Sir, when I was first honoured with 
your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I 
should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly 
into the glare of polite and learned observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever hunoured patron, 
write you an account of my every step ; and 
better health and more spirits may enable me tc 
make it something better than this stupid mat- 
ter of fact epistle. 

I have the honour to be. 
Good Sir, 
Your ever grateful humble Servant 

If any of my friends write me, mv directica 
is, care of Mr. Creech, bookseiter. 



• " But" is frequently used for 
without clothing. 

♦ Profess<vr Dugald Stewart. 



without ;" 



No. XX.J 

TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, 

Writer, Ayr. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. 

MT dear friend, 

I CONFESS I havt sinned the sin for which 
tJiere is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to 
friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of 
all men living, I had intended to send you an 
entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, 
stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited ma- 
jesty, preside over the dull routine of business — 
A heavily-solentn oath tiiis ! — I am, and have 
been, ever since I came to Edinbuigh, as unfit 
to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- 
mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- 
vine, who was b;inished to the Isle of Patmos, 
by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Ves-- 
pasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of 
Rome, and who was himself an em|;eror, and 



• Lady Betty ('unningham. 

t ITie paper tiere alludid to, was written bf Mr. 
M'Kenzie, the celebrated auUior of the Man of Feci 
big. 



I t This letter u now prcaeiitflil entiie. 



258 



BURNS* WORKS. 



raised the second or third persecution, I forget 
which, against the Christianas, and after throw- 
ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle 
Jannes, commonly called James the greater, to 
distinguish him from another James, who was, 
on some accocnt or other, known by tae name 
of James the less, after throwing him into a 
paldrou of boiling oil, from which he was mi- 
raculously preserved, he banished the poor son 
of Zebedee, to a desert island io the Archipe- 
lago, where he was gifted with the second sight, 
and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen 
since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum- 
stance not very uncommon in story- telling, 
brings me back to where I set out. 

To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you will have suffer- 
ed ; I enclose you two poems I have carded and 
spun since I past Glenbuck. 

One blank in the address to Ediaburgh — 
" Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh- 
ter to Lord Monbodde, at whose house I have 
had the honour to be more than once. 

There has not been any thing nearly like her, 
in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and 
goodness, the Great Creator has formed, since 
Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence. 

My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer- 
chant, Bridge- Street. 



LETTERS, 1787. 
, No. XXI. 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 

Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 1787. 

M"i aONOURED FRIEND, 

It gives me a secret comfort to observe in 
myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie 
Gaw's skate, *' past redemption ;"• for 1 luive 
Btill this favourable symptom of grace, that when 
my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells 
me I am leaving something undone that I ought 
to do, it teazes me eternally till I do it. 

I air. still " dark as was chaos" in respect to 
futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Mil- 
ler, has been talking with me about a lease of 
some farm or other in an estate called Dalswin- 
ton, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. 
S>!me life-rented embittering recollections whis- 
per me that I will be happier any where than 
in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no 
judge of lanrf ; and though I dare say he means 
to favour me, yet he may givf> me, in his opi- 
nion, an advantageous bargain, that may ruin 
me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I re- 
turn, and have promised to meet Mr. Miller on 
his Ian is some tine in Ma3r. 



* This is one of a great number of old taws that 
riu- lis. when a lad, nad pick ?d up from his mother, 
sf wiiich Xtie good old woman had a vast ooUectioa. 



I went to a Mason-lot ge yesternight, where 
the most Worshipful- Granr. Master Charters, 
and all the Grand-Lodge of Scotland visited.— < 
The meeting was numerous and elegant ; all the 
different Lodges about town were present, in ail 
their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided 
with great solemnity and honour to himself as a 
gentleman and Mason, among other general 
toasts gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 

Brother B ," which rung through the whole 

assembly with multi(»Hed honours and repeated 
acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing 
would happen, I was downright thunder-struck, 
and trembling in every nerve made the best re- 
turn in my power. Just as I had fin.ished, seme 
of the grand officers said, so loud that I could 
hear, Avith a most comforting accent, " Very 
well indeed !" which set me something torightt 
aigain. 



I have to-day corrected my 1 52d page. My 
best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. 
I am ever. 
Dear Sir, 
Your much indebted humble Servant 



No. xxn. 

TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

MY LORD, Edinburc/h, Jan. 178 7. 

As I have bi't slender pretensions to philoso- 
phy, 1 cannot risi to the exalted ideas of a ci- 
tizen of the world ; but have ail those national 
prejudices which, I believe, glow peculiarly 
strong in the breas* of a Scotchman. There is 
scarcely any thing vo which I am so feelingly 
alive, as the honour and welfare of my country; 
and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than 
singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast 
my station in the veriest shades of life ; but ne- 
ver did a heart pant more ardently than mine, 
to be distinguished ; though, till very lately, I 
looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. 
It is easy, then, to guess how much I was gra- 
tified with the countenance and approbation o. 
one of ray country's most illnstrious sons, when 
Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday, oti the 
part of your lordship. Your munificence, iny 
lord, certainly deserves my very grateful ac- 
knowledgments ; but your patronage is a boun- 
ty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not 
master enough of the etiquette of life to know 
whether there be not some impropriety in 
troubling your lordship with my thanks ; but 
my heart whispered me to do it. From th« 
emotions of my inmost soul 1 do it. Selfish in 
gratitude, I hope, I am incapable of; and mer 
cenary servility, I tru?t, I shall ever have sc 
much honest pride as to detest. 



C ORRESPONDENCE. 



25S 



»o. XXIIL 
:0 MRF. DUNLOP. 

,*»««<, Edinburgh, \ 5th Jan. 1787. 

Yours of the 9th current, whicli I am this 
moment, honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a 
fib ; I wished to have written to Dr. Moore 
before T wrote to you ; but though, every day 
eince I received yours of December 30th, the 
idea, the wish to write him, has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my 
eoui set about it. I know his fame and charac- 
ter, and I «im one of " the sons of little men." 
To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like 
a merchant's order, would be disgracing the lit- 
tlp character I have ; and to write the author 
of The View of Society and Manners a letter 
of sentiment — I declare svery artery runs c(»ld 
at the thought. I shall try, however, to write 
him to-morrow or next day. His kind interpo- 
sition in my behalf I have already experienced, 
ts a gentleman waited on me the other day, (m 
the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas by 
way of subscription for two copies of my next 
edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I 
have made of my glorious countryman and your 
Immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from 
Thomson ; but it does not strike me as an im- 
jjroper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment 
en your finding fault with it, and applied for 
the opinion of some of the literati here, who 
honour me with their critical strictures, and 
»£ey all allow it to be proper. The sonjj you 
Jisk I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of 
it. I have not composed any thing on the great 
Wallace, except what you have seen in print, 
and the enclosed, which I will print in this edi- 
tion. • You will see I have mentioned some 
others of the name. When I composed my 
Vision, long ago, I hud attempted a description 
of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a 
part, as it originally stood. My heart glows 
with a wish to be al)le to do justice to the me- 
rits of the Sai-iaur of his Country, which, 
sooner or later, 1 shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I 
know myself and the world too well. 1 do not 
mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am wil- 
ling to believe that my abilities deserved some 
DOtice ; but in a most enlightened, informed 
ige and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the first natural genius, 
aided with all the powers of polite learniQsj, 
polite books, and polite company — to be drag- 
ged forth to the full glare of learned and polite 
observation, with all my imperfections of awk- 



ward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on my 
head — I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemble 
when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. 
The novelty of a poet in my cbscure situation, 
without any of those advattcages which are 
reckoned necessary for that character, at least 
at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of 
public notice, which has borne me to a height 
where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my 
abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too 
surely do I see that time when the same tide 
will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below 
the mark of truth. 



Your patronizing me, and interesting your- 
self in my fame and character as a poet, I re- 
joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and 
whether you can or canabt aid me in my snb- 
scription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription* 
bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compar> 
ed with the patronage of the descendant of the 
immortal Wallace ? 



» Stanzas in the Fision, beginnin<r third stanza, 
• By sUtely tower ..: palace fair," and ending witJi the 
fist duan. 



No. XXIV 

TO DR. MOORE. 

SIR, 1787. 

Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me 
extracts of letters she has had from you, where 
you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing 
him and his works. Those who have felt the 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship., can only 
know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such 
a manner by judges of the first character. Your 
criticisms. Sir, I receive with reverence ; only, 
I am sorry they mostly came too late ; a peccant 
passage or two, that I would certainly have al- 
tered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far 
the greater part of tho.se even who are authors 
of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, 
my first ambition was, and still my strongest 
wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic in- 
mates of the hamlet, while ever changing lan- 
guage and manners shall aUow me to be relished 
and understood. I am very willing to admi<; 
that 1 have some poetical abilities ; and as few, 
If any writers, either moral or poetical, are inti- 
mately acquainted with the cljwses of mankind 
a'.*ong whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have 
seen men and manner* in a difliereiit phasis from 
what is common, which may assist originality 
of thought. Still I know very well the novelty 
of my charactt r has by far the greatest share in 
the learned and polite notice I have latdy had ; 
and in a 1 mguage where Pope and Churchill 
have rai^^ed the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray 
drawn the te.tr — where Thomson and Beattie 
have pamted the landscape, and Lyttleton an(* 
Collin-i ilesciibid th- heart. I am not vain e 
nough tr> hoj)e foi- distinguished poetic fame. 



860 



BURNS* WORKS. 



No. XXV. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

SIR, Clifford Street, Jan. 23, 1787. 

I HAVE just received your letter, by which I 
find I ha'e reason to complain of my friend 
Mrs, Dunlop for transmitting to you extracts 
From my letters to her, by much too freely and 
too carelessly written for your perusal. I must 
forgive her, however, in consideration of her 
good intention, as you will forgive me, I hope, 
for the freedom I use with certain expressions, 
in consideration of my admiration of the poems 
in general. If I may judge of the author's dis- 
position from his works, with all the other good 
qualities of a poet, he has not the irritable tem- 
per ascribed to that race of men by one of their 
own number, whom you have the happiness to 
resemble in ease and curious felicity of expres- 
sion. Indeed the poetical beauties, however 
original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, 
are not all I admire in your works ; the love of 
your native country, thit feeling sensibility to 
all the objects of humanity, and the independent 
spirit which breathes through the whole, give 
me a most favourable impression of the poet, 
and have made me often regret that I did not i 
Bee the poems, the certain eifect of which would 
have been my seeing the author last summer, 
when I was longer in Scotland than I have been 
for many years. 

I rejoice v^rv sincerely at the encouragement 
you receive at j^dinburgh, and I think you pe- 
culiarly fortunate in the pa.tronage of Dr. Blair, 
who, I am informed, interests himself very much 
for you. I beg to be remembered to him : no- 
body can have a warmer regard for that gentle- 
man tiian I have, which, independent of the 
worth of his character, would be kept alive by 
the memory of our common friend, the late Mr. 
George B e. 

Before 1 received your letter, I sent enclosed 
in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss Wil- 
liams, a young poetical lady, which she wrote 
on reading your Mountain-Daisy ; perhaps it 
may not displease you. * 

1 have been trymg to add to the number of 
your substTibers, but I find many of my ac- 
quaintance are already among them. I have 
oiily to add, that with every sentiment of es- 
teem, and most cordial good wishes, 
I am, 

Your obedient humble servant, 
J. MOORE. 



* The sonnet is as follows : — 

Whii.x soon the garden's flaunting flowers de- 
cay, 

And scattered on the earth neglected lie, 
Hie " Mountain-Daisy," cherislied by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose ! 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale ; 



He felt each storm th.it on the mountain blows, 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale 
By genius in her native vigour nurst, 

On nature with irnpassion'd look he gazed ; 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune bui«t 

Indignant, and in light unbu?row*d blazed. 
Scotia ! from rude affliction shield thy bard. 

His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will 
gfuard. 



No. XXVI. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



SIR, Edinburgh, 15/A Feb. 1787. 

Pardon my seennng neglect in delaying so 
long to acknowledge the honour yoa have done 
me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. 
Not many months ago, I knew no other em- 
ployment than following the plough, nor could 
boast any thing higher than a distant acquaint- 
ance with a countiy clergyman. Mere great- 
ness never embarrasses me : I have nothing to 
ask from the great, and I do not fear their 
judgment ; but genius, polished by learning, 
and at its proper point of elevation in the eye (A 
the Vt^orld, this of late I fiequently meet with, 
and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affec- 
tation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceitw 
That I have some nierit I do not deny ; but I 
see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the 
novelty of my character, and the honest national 
prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to 
a height altogether untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss W. has done me, please, 
Sir, return her in my name, my most grateful 
thanks. I have more than once thought of pay- 
ing her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the 
idea in hopeless despondency. I had never be- 
fore heard of her ; but the other day I got her 
poems, which, for several reasons, some belong- 
ing to the head, and others the offspring of the 
heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have 
little pretensions to critic lore : there are, I 
think, two characteristic features in her poetry 
— the unfettered wild flight of native genius, 
and the querulous, sombre tenderness of " time- 
settled sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often without 
beiug able to tell why. 



No. XX VII 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Atr. 
Edivburgh, Feb. 24, 1787 

MY honoured KRIENn, 

I WILL soon he with you now in gnid black 
prent ; in a week or ten days at farthest — I am 
obliged, against my own wish, to print sub. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



261 



•'.T'l*ers names, so if any of my Ayr friends 
have srtL'stTiptioa bills, ihey must be sent in to 

Creech directly I am getting my phiz done by 

in eminent engraver ; and if it can be ready m 
i'v.vM. I u'lll appear in my book looking like other 
fools, to a^y title page.* 

I have the honour to be, 
Ever your grateful, 8ec. 



No. XXV III 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Cliffurd Street, 2Sth Feb. 1787. 

Your letter of the l.'ith gave me a great deal 
of pleasure. Ir, is not surprising that you im- 
prove in c-t»rrectness and taste, considering where 
you have l)een for some time past. And I dare 
«wear there is no danger of your admitting any 
pttlish which might weaken the vigour of your 
native powers. 

I am glnd to perceive that you disdain the 
nauseous atFectation of decrying your own merit 
as a poet — an affectation wliicli is displayed with 
most ostent.ttion by those who have the greatest 
share of self-conceit, and which only adds unde- 
ceiving falsehood to disgusting vanity. For you 
to deny the merit of your poems would be ar- 
faignini; the fixed opinion of the public. 

As the new editictn of my View of Society 
)s not yet ready, I have sent you the former 
nlition, which, I beg you will accept as a small 
ntaik of my esteem. It is sent by sea, to the 
care o! xVIr. Creech ; and, along with these four 
volumes for yourself, I have also sent my Medi- 
ud Skefvhes, in one volume, for my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop (if Duiilop : this you will he so obliging 
as to transmit, or if you chance to pass soon by 
Dunlop, to give to her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription is 
«o ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of good 
fortune that befalls jou : for you are a very 
great favourite in my family ; and this is a 
higher compliment than perhaps you are aware 
of. It includes almost all the professions, and 
of course is a proof that your writings are adapt- 
ed to various tastes and situations. My young- 
est son wnu is at Winchester school, writes to 
me that he is translating some stanzas of your 
HuU(iwe*en into Latin verse, for the benefit of 
his comrades. This union of taste partly pro- 
ceeds, no doubt, from the cement of Scottish 
partiality, with which they are all somewhat 
tinctured. Even 7/our translator., who left Scot- 



• This |>ortrait is engraved by Mr. Beugo, an artist 
mho well merits the c.ithet Ix'stowcd on hira by the 
poet, after a picture of Mr. Nasmyth, whicli he paint- 
ed con uHtoie, and liberally presented to Bums. Thi« 
picture in ' f the c.iliinet »ize. 



land too early in life for recollection. \% not 
without it. 



I remain, with greatest sincerity, 
Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORE 



No. XXIX. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

MY LORD, Edinburgh^ 1787. 

I WANTED to purchase a profile of your lorH 
ship, which I was told was to be got in town ; 
but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering 
painter has spoiled a " human face divine.' 
The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written 
below a picture or profile of your lordship, could 
I have been so happy as to procure one with any 
thmg of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for my 
gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to 
sav to a friend, There is n)y noble patron, my 
generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to 
publish these verses. I conjure your lordship 
by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gene- 
rous wish cif benevolence, by all the powers and 
feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition.* I owe to your 
lordship ; and what has not in some other in 
stances always been the dise with me, the weigh 
of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust, 
have a heart as independent as your lordship'% 
than which I can say nothing more : and 
would not be beholden to favours that wou!4 
crucify my feelings. Your dignified characta 
in life, and manner of supporting that character 
are flattering to my pride ; and I would be jea» 
lous of the purity of my grateful attachment, 
where I was under the patronage of one of the 
much favoureii sons of f )rtune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to fame, 
and illustrious in their country ; allow me, then, 
ray lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic 
merit, to tell the world how much I have the 
honour to be 

Your lordship's highly indebted. 
And ever grateful humble servant 



• It does not appear that the Earl granted this re 
quest, nor have the verses lOluded to been forin^ 
among the MSS. 



262 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. XXX. 
fO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

;tT LORD, 

The honour your lordship has done me, by: 
your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- 
stant, I shall ever gratefully remember : 

" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to; 

boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most." '. 

Your lordship touches the darling chor(i of 
my heart, when you advise me to fire my muse 
at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish 
for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- 
grimage through my native country ; to sit and 
muse on those once hard- contended fields, where 
Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne 
through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, 
moral- looking phantom strides across my imagi- 
nation, and pronounces these emphatic words, 
•'* I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence." 



This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must re- 
•.arn to my humble station, and woo my rustic 
muse in my wonted way at the piough-tail. 
Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in 
which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those 
her distinguished sons, who have honoured me 
•so much with their patronage and approbation, 
shall, while stealing through my humble shades, 
ever distend my bosom, and at times draw 
forth the swelling tear. 



No. XXXT. 

Ext. Pr perty in favour of Mr. Robert 
BuRNt, to erect and keep up a Headstone ifi 
memory of Poet Fekgusson, 1787. 

Session-house, within the Kirk of Ca- 
nongnte, the twenty-second day of 
February, one thousand seven hun- 
dred and eighty-seven years. 

Sederunt of the managers of the Kirk and Kirk- 
yard Funds of Canongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date the sixth current, which was read, and 
appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt- 
book, and of which letter the tenor follows . 
** To the Honourable Bailie* of Canongate, 



Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorr} to be told 
that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the M 
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, fo. 
.ages to come, will do honour to our Caledo- 
nian name, lie in your church-yard, among th« 
ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. 

*• Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
loyers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed 
a tear over the " narrow house,' of the bard 
who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fer» 
gusson's memory ; ^ tribute I wish to have the 
honour of paying. 

" I petition you, then. Gentlemen, to permit 
me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, 
to remain an unalienable property to his death- 
less fame. I have the honour to be, Gentlemen, 
your very humble servant, {sic subscribitur )j 
•' ROBERT BURNS." 

Thereafter the said managers, in considera 
tion of the laudable and disinterested motion 
of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, 
did, and hereby do, unanimously grant powei 
and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect 
a headstone at the grave of the said Robert 
Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the 
same to his memory in all time coming. Ex 
tr acted forth of the records of the managers, bf 
William Sprott. Clerk 



No. XXXIL 



TO 



MT DEAR SIR, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from )ou, 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say- 
thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of a 
life my conscience has led me on that account, 
your good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to me so 
unaccountable as that thing called conscierice 
Had the troublesome yelping cur powers effi 
cient to prevent a mischief, he might be o! 
use : but at the beginning of the business, his 
feeble efforts are to the workings of passion a» 
the infant frosts of an anrumnal morning to the 
unclouded fervour of the rising sun : and no 
sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked 
deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con- 
sequences of folly, in the very vortex of oui 
horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows u« 
with the feelings of the d . 

I have enclosed y«»u, by way of expiation, 
some verse and prose, that, if they merit a place 
in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are 
welcome to. The prose extract is literally aa 
Mr. Sprott sent 't me. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



263 



T%c Inscription zn the Stone is as follows : 
HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, 

POET. 

Jiom Septefkbt' nth, \751-^J}ied, l€th October 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia s way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 

On the other side of the Stone is as follows : 

" By special grant of the Managers to Robert 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place 
18 to remain for ever sacred to che memory of 
Robert Fergusson." 



No. XXXIII. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
FROM 

^th March, 1787. 

I AM truly happy to know you have found a 

friend in : his patronage of you does 

him great honour. He is truly a good man ; 
by far the best I ever knew, or, perhaps, ever 
shall know, in this world. But I must not 
speak all I think of him, lest I should be thought 
partial. 

So you have obtaiued liberty from the magis- 
trates to erect a stone over Fergusson's grave ? 
I do not doubt it ; such things have been, as 
Shakespeare says, " in the olden time :" 

" The poet's fate, is here in emblem shown. 
He a>k'd for bread, and he received a stone." 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that 
this is written. But how many brothers of 
Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poor Fer- 
gusson, have asked for bread, and been served 
with the same sauce ! 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they ? 
O gtnerous magistrates ! . . . . celebrated 
over th»» three kingdoms for his public spirit, 
gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a 
poor poet's memory ! — most generous ! . . . 
ouce U|ion a time gave that same poet the mighty 
sum of eighteen pence for a copy of his works. 
But then it must be considered that the poet was 
at this time absolutely starving, and besought 
his aid with all the earnestness of hunger; and, 

over and afxtve, he received a — worth, at 

least one-third of the value, in exchange, but 
which, I believe the poet afterwards very un- 
gratefully expunged. 

Next week I hope tc have the pleasure of 
leeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my stay wih 
be for eight or ten days, I wish you or 



would take a snug, well-i»ire«. bed-»-oora for me, 
where I may have the pleasirre of seeing you 
over a morning cup of tea. But rtv ail accounts, 
it will be a matter of some difficulty to see you 
at all, unless your company is bespokt a week 
before-hand. There is a great rumour htre con- 
cerning your great intimacy with the Duchess ot 
, and other ladies of distinction. I am 



really told that " cards to invite fly by thousands 
each night ;" and, if you had one, I suppose 
there would tllso be " bribes to your old secre- 
tary." It seems you are resolved to make hay 
while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, the 

fate of poor Fergusson, 

Qucerenda pecunia primum est, virtus post num- 
mos, is a good maxim to thrive by : you seemed 
to despise it while in this country ; but proba- 
bly some philosopher in Edinburgh has taught 
you better sense. 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print' 
ing .' — Are you yet seized 

" With itch of picture in the front, 
With bays of wicked rhyme upon't !" 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend 
to matters that more concern myself : so, as the 
Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly, we sal drink 
phan we meet.* 



No. XXXIV. 
TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH, 
Student in Physic, College, Glasgow 
Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. 

MY EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE, 

I WAS equally surprised and pleased at your 
letter ; though I dare say you will think by my 
delaying so long to write to you, that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as 
to be mdifferent to old and once dear connec 
tions. The truth is, I was determined to write 
a good letter, full of argument, amplification, 
erudition, and, as Bayes says, a/l thit. I thought 
of it, and thought of it, but for my soul I can- 
not : and lest you should mistake the cause of 
my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't 
give yourself credit though, that the strength of 
your logic scares me : the truth is, I never iiuau 
to meet you on that ground at all. You have 



* The abo e extract is from a letter of one of tne 
ablest of our poet's correspondents, which confaina 
some interesting anecdotes of Fergnssi >n, that ,ve should 
have been happy to have inserted, if they could have 
been authenticated. The writer is mistaken in supjjos- 
ing the magistrate-, of Edmburgh had any share in the 
transaction respecting the monument erected for Fer- 
gusson by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed bet wees 
Burns arid the Kirk Sestion of the Canongate. Neithei 
at Kdinburgh, nor anywhere else, do mag si rates usa 
ally trouble themselves to inquire how the house of 
poor poet is furnished, or how his grave is adorncil 



BURMS' ,VORKS. 



B^icwa me one thiog, which was to be demon- 
strated ; that strong pride of reasoning, with a 
little affectation of singularity, may mislead tlie 
best of hearts. I, likewise, since you and I 
were first acquainted, in. the pride of despising 
old women's stories, ventured in " the daring 
path Spinosa trod ;** but experience of the 
weakness, not the strength, of human powers, 
made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. 

I must stop, but don't impute riiy brevity to 
a wrong cause. I am still, in the Apostle Paul's 
phrase, " The old man with his deeds'* as whon 
we were sporting about the lady thorn. I shall 
be four weeks here yet, at least ; and so I shall 
itxpeot to hear from you — welcome sense, wel- 
Roiue nonsense. 

I atu, with the warmest sincerity, 
My dear old friend, 

Yours. 



No. XXXV. 
TO THE SAAIE. 

MT DEAR FRiEKD, 

If once I were gone from this scene of hurry 
and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure 
of that conespondence being renewed which has 
been so long broken. At present 1 have time 
for nothing. Dissipation and business engross 
every moment. I am engaged in assisting an 
honest Scots enthusiast.* a friend of mine, who 
is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to 
publish a collfttion of all our songs set to music, 
of whicli the woi ds and music are done by Scots- 
men. This, you will easily guess, is an under- 
taking exactly to my taste. I have collected, 
begged, borrowed, and stolen all the songs I 
could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and 
music, 1 beg from you immediately, to go into 
bis second number : the first is already pub- 
lished. 1 shall shew you the first number when 
I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fort- 
night or less. Do be so kind as send me the 
tong in a day or two : you cannot imagine how 
•fluch it will oblige me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, St. 
James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. 



No. XXXVI. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

MADAM, Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 

I READ your letbr with watery eyes. A lit- 
tle, very little while ago, / had scarce a friend 
Itut the stuhhorn pride of my own bosom ; now 
( am distinguished, pationized, befriended by 
you. Your friendly advices, I will not give 

• J<fhHnm, the pubiislier of the Scots Musical Museum. 



them the cold name of criticisms, I receive wiA 
reverence. I have made some small alterationt 
in what I before had printed I have the ad 
vice of some very judicious frienrls among thi 
literati here, but with them I sometimes find it 
necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for 
myself. The noble Eail of Glencairn, to whom 
I owe more than to any man, does me the hon- 
our of giving me his strictures : his hints with 
respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- 
plicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects ; there 2 can give you uo 
light ; it is all 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roli'd together, or had tried his beami 
Athwart the glooin profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far 
my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is 
my most exalted amliition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish st(»ry are the themes I could wish to 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in 
my power, unplagued with the routine of busi- 
ness, for which heaven knows 1 am unfit enough, 
to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; 
to sit on the fields of her battles ; to wander on 
the romantic banks of her rivers ; and to muse 
by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once 
the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have 
dallied long enough with life : 'tis time to be in 
earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
tender. Where the individual only suffers by 
the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, in- 
dolence, or folly, he may be excusable : nay, 
shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, 
may half-sanctify a heedless character : but 
where God and nature have intrusted the wel- 
fare of others to his care ; where the trust is sa- 
cred, and the ties are dear, that man must be 
far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflec- 
tion, whom these connections will not rouse to 
exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two anc 
three hundred pounds by my authorship ; with 
that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old acquain- 
tance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a 
lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. 
I do not intend to give up poetry : being bred 
to labour secures me independence ; and th« 
muses are my chief, sometimes have been my 
only enjoyment. If my practice second my re- 
solution, I shall have principally at heart the se- 
rious business of life : but while following my 
plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a 
leisure glance to that dear, that only feature ol 
my character, which gave me the notice of my 
country and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured madam, I have given you the 
bard, his situation, and his views, native as the* 
are in his own bosom. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



26i 



No. XXXVIL 

TO THE SAME. 

,i>riVM, Edinburgh, \bth April 119,1. 

Thkrk is an affectation of gratitude which I 
di'IiUe The periods of Johnson and the pauses 
.It' Ss rue may hide a selfish heart. For my 
part, .M.idam, I trust I have too much pride for 
sn viliry, and too little prudence for selfishness. 
I liave this moment broke open your letter, 
but 

" Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
Jn speaking for myself — " 

so I shall not trouble you with any 6ne speeches 
ind hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand 
on my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever have 
the truest, the warmest, sense of your goodness. 

I come abroad in print for certain on Wed- 
nesday. Your orders I shall punctually uttend 
to ; onlVi by the way, I must tell ynu that I 
was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W 's 
copies, through the medium of Commissioner 
Cochrane in this place ; but that we can settle 
when I have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the 
CQorning before I received your letter to him. 



^o. xxxviii 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 17S7. 

I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one you 
mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-skilled in 
beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors 
of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, for the honour 
you have done me ; and to my latest hour will 
warmly remember it. To be highly pleased 
with your book, is what I have in common 
with the world ; but to regard these volumes a* 
a mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still 
more supreme gratification. 

I leave Edfhburgh in the course of ten days 
or a fortnight ; and after a few pilgrimages over 
some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cow- 
den Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweedy Sfc. 
1 shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- 
hood never more to quit them I have formed 
many intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
afraid they are all of too teuder a construction 
to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, 
' have no equivalent to offer ; and 1 am afraid 
any meteor appearance will by no means entitle 
me to a settled correspondence with any of you, 
Vho are the permanent lights oF genius and li- 
terature. 

• Adam Smith. 



My most reigpectful cornplitnents to Miss W 
If once this tangent flight of mine were over 
and I were returned to my wonted leisurel}' 
motion in my old circle, I may probably endea 
vour to retur-» her poetic compliment in kind 



No. XXXIX. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 30th Aj>ril, 1787. 
Your criticismis, Madam, I under- 



stand very well, and could have wished to have 
pleased you better. You are light in your guesa 
that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, 
much my superiors, have so flattered tiiose who 
possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and 
power, that I am determined to flatter no cre- 
ated being either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by , lords, clergy, cri- 
tics, &c. as all these respective gentry do by 
my hardship. I know what I may expect from 
the world by and by — illiberal abuse, and per- 
haps contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy, Madam, that some of my owe 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- 
ticular approbation. For my Dream, which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- 
sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the 
honour of appearing at Duuiop in its defence, in 
person. 



No. XL. 



TO THE REVEREND DR. HUGH BLAIR 
Lawn-Market, Edinburpi, Sd May, 1787 

REVEREND AND MUCH RESVECTED SIR, 

I LEAVE Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
could not go without troubling you with half a 
line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown me. 
I often felt the embarrassment of my singular si 
tuation ; drawn forth from the veriest shade* 
of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured bj 
the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- 
try, whose works, while they are applauded tc 
the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the 
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my 
appearance in the world might attract notice, 
and honour me with the acquaintance of the 
permanent lights of genius and literature, those 
who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- 
ture of man ; I knew very well, that my utnio 
merit was far unequal to the task of preservi 
that character when once the novelty was ovir 
I have made up my mind, that abuse, or alone 



J 



86b 



BURNS* WORKS. 



wen neglect, will not surprise me in my 
quarters. 

f h;ive sent you a proof impression of Beu- 
go's work for me, ione on Indian paper, as a 
trifling but sincere testimony with what aeart- 
tvarm gratitude I aaa, &c. 



No. XLI. 

FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Argyle- Square, Edinhvrgh, ith May, 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

I WAS favoured this forenoon with your very 
obliging letter, together with an impression of 
your portrait, for which I return you my best 
thanks. The success you have met with I do 
not think was beyond your merits ; and if I 
have had any small hand in contributing to it, 
it gives me great pleasure. I know no way in 
which literary persons, who are advanced iu 
years, can do more service to the world, than 
in forwarding the efforts of rising genius, or 
bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity. 
I was the first person who brought out to the 
notice of the world, the poems of Ossian : first 
by the Fragments of AricitTit Poetry y which I 
published, and afterwards, by vny setting on 
foot the undertaking for colk-i-ting and publish- 
ing the Works of Ossian ; and I have always 
considered this iis a meritorious action of my 
life. 

Your situntion, as you say, w,is indeed very 
singular ; and, iu beint; hrou^^ht out aH at once 
from the shades (tf deepest piivacy, to so great 
a share of public notice and observation, you 
had to stand a severe trial. I am happy that 
you have stood it so well ; and as far as I have 
known or heard, though in the midst of many 
temptations, without reproach to your charac- 
ter and behaviour. 

You are now, i presume, to retire to a more 
private walk of iih ; and I trust, will conduct 
yourself there with jndustiy, prudence, and ho- 
nour. You have laid tiie luuiuiatiou for just 
public esteem In the midst of those employ- 
ments, which your situation will lender proper, 
yoH will not. I iiojje, neglect to promote that 
esteem, by cultivatiiii> your genius, and attend- 
ing to such productions of it a.v may raise your 
character still higher. At tiie s^ame time, be 
aot in too great a ha:^te to come forward. Take 
time and leisuie to iuipiove d.uu mature your 
talents ; for on any secoud production you give 
■*\e world, your fate, as a poet, will veiy much 
depend. There is, no douiit, a glt;ss of novelty 
which time wears off. As \ou very properly 
hint yourself, you are not to be surprised if, in 
your rural retreat, you do not hud yourself sur- 
rounded will that glare of notice and applause 
irhich here shone upon you. No man can be 
giio«' poet without being somewhat of a uhi- 



losopher. Ht must lay his account, tliat »nj 
one, who exposes himself to public observation, 
will occasionally meet with the attacks of illi- 
beral censure, which it is always best to over- 
look and despise. He will be inclined some- 
times to court retreat, and to disappear from 
public view. He will not affect to shine al- 
ways, that he may at proper seasons come forth 
with more advantage and energy. He will not 
think himself neglected if he be not always 
praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, o( 
an old man, to give advice and make reflections 
which your own good sense will, I dare say, 
render unnecessary. 

As you mention your being just about to 
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, to 
Dumfriesshire, to look at some of Mr. Miller's 
farms. I heartily wish the offers to be made 
you there may answer ; as I am persuaded yoo 
will not easily find a more generous and bettei^ 
hearted proprietor to live under than Mr. Mil* 
ier. When you return, if you come this way, 
I will be happy to see you, and to know con- 
cerning your future plans of life. You will 
find me, by the Z^d of this month, not in my 
house in Argyle Square, but at a country-house 
at Restalrig, about a mile east from Edinburgh, 
near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all 
success and prosperity, I am, with real reg*4i \ 
and esteem, 

Dear Sir, 

Youis sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIK. 



No. XLII. 

TO WILLIAM CREECH, Esq. 

(^of Edinburgh,) London. 

Selkirk, \Sth May, 1787. 

MY HONOURED FRIEND, 

Th e enclosed • I have just wrote, nearly tx 
tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a 
miserable wet day's riding. — I have been over 
most of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and 
Selklrkshires ; and next week I begin a tour 
through the north of England. Yesterday I 
dined with Lady Harlot, sister to my noble pa- 
tron, Quern Deus conservet ! I would write tij 
I would tire you as much with dull prose as I 
dare say by this time you are with wretched 
verse, but I am jaded to death ; so, with a grate- 
ful farewell, 

I have the honour to be. 

Good Sir, yours sincere^' 



* Elegy on W. Creech ; -ee U»e Puetrv. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



26*2 



No. XLIIl. 
FROM DR. MOORE 
GVfford Street, May 23, 1787. 

rttAR JIR, 

I KAD the pleasure of your letter by Mr. 
Creech, and soon after he sent me the new edi- 
rion of your poems. You s^eein to think it in- 
:umbent on you to send to each subscriber a 
jumber of copies proportionate to his subscrip- 
tion money ; but you may depend upon it, few 
subscribers expect more than one copy, what- 
ever they subscribed. I must inform you, how- 
ever, that I took twelve copies for those subscri- 
bers for whose money you were so accurate as 
to send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton told 
me he had sent for six copies for himself, as he 
wished to give fiv« of them in presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this 
last edition are beautiful, particularly the Win- 
ter Nipht, the Address to Edinburgh, Green 
grow the Rashes, and the two songs immediate- 
ly following ; the latter of which was exquisite. 
By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar ta- 
lent for such compositions, which you ought to 
mdulge. * No kind of poetry demands more 
^eli( acy or higher polishing. Horace is more 
admired on account of his Odes than all his 
other writings. But nothing now added is 
equal to your Vision and Cotter^s Saturdiaj 
Niijht. In these are united fine imagery, na- 
tural and pathetic description, with sublimity of 
language and thought. It is evident that you 
already possess a great variety of expression aud 
command of the Ejjglish language ; you ought, 
therefore, to deal more sparingly for the future 
in tiie provincial dialect : — why shcmld you, by 
using that, limit the number of your admirers !o 
those v/ho unrlerstaud the Scottish, when yo \ 
can extend it to all persons of taste who under 
stand the English language? In my opinion, 
you should plan some larger work than any you 
have as yet attempted. I mean, reflect upon 
some proper suWject, and arrange the plan iu 
your mind, without beginning to execute any 
part of it till you have studied most of the best 
English poets, and read a little more of history. 
The Greek and Roman stories you can read in 
Rome abridgment, and soon become master of 
the most brilliant facts, which must highly de- 
light a poetical mind. You should also, and 
very soon may, become master of the heathen 
mythology, to which there are everlasting allu- 
iiions in all the poets, and which in itself is 
charmingly fanciful. What will require to be 
studied with more attention, is modern history , 
that is, the history of France and Great Britain, 
from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's reign 
I know very well you have a mind capable of 
ittaining knowledge by a shorter process than 
M communly used, and I am certain you are ca- 



* His sut)sequent composiuons will bear testimony 
o theaivuracy of Dr. Moure's Judgment 



pable of making a better use of it, when attain 
ed, than is generally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trouble 
of writing to ine when it is inconvenient, and 
make no apology, when you do write, for ha- 
ving postponed it ; be assured of this, however 
that I shall always be happy to hear from you 

I think my friend Mr. told me that yot; 

had some poems in manuscript by you of a sati- 
rical and humorous nature (iu which, by thfl 
way, I think you very strong), which your pru- 
dent friends prevailed on you to omit, particu- 
larly one called Somebody's Confession ; if you 
will entrust me with a sight of any of these, 1 
will pawn my word to give no copies, and will 
be obliged to you for a perusal of them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
make the useful and re8j)ectable business of hus- 
bandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, will 
not prevent yt)ur making occasional addresses to 
the nine ladies who have shown you such fa- 
vour, one of whom visited you in the auld clajf 
big(fin. Virgil, before you, proved to the world 
that there is nothing in the business of husband- 
ry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope that 
you in ly afford an example of a good poet being 
a siicces>ful farmer. I fear it will not be in my 
power to visit Scotland this season ; when I do, 
I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heai-tily 
wish to see and converse with you. If evel 
your occasions call you to this place, I make no 
doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may 
depend uii a very cordial welcome from this fe- 
uiily. I am, dear Sir, 

Your friend and obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XLIV. 
TO MR. W. NICOLL, 

Master of the High-School, Edinburgh. 
Carlisle, June 1, 1787. 

KIND, HONKST-HEAJITED WILLIE. 

I'm sitten down here, after seven and forty 
miles lidin, e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as a 
forfoughten cock, to gie you some not.on o' my 
land lowper-like stravuguin sin the sonowfu' 
hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi* aula 
Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd glejrde o* a meere has huchy- 
all'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland and 
England, as teugh and birnie as a vei a devil wi 
me.* It's true, she's as poor s a sang-maker 



♦ ThU mare wa« the Poet's favourite Jenny Oed- 
DBS, of whom honourable and most humorous men- 
tion is made in a letter, inserted in Dr. Currie's edition, 
vol. i. p. 165. 

This old and faithfal servant ot the Poet's was named 
by him, after the old woman, wno ui her zeal ugainst 
religious mnovaCiun, threw a stool at the Dean o<. 
Edinburgh's head, when he attempted m l-'37, to in 
trodwve the Scottish Liiu.gy. " On Sunday, tne 234 



268 



BURNS* WORKS. 



and as hard's a kirk, ana tipper-taipera when 
she taks the gate, first .ike a lady's gentlewoman 
in a miniiwae, or a hen on het girdle, hut 
she's a yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, and 
has a stomack like Willie Stalker's meere that 
wad hae disgeested tumbler-wheels, for she'll 
whip me aff her five stimparts o' the best aits 
at a down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. 
When ance her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks 
and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, 
beets to, and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. 
I could wager her price to a thretty pennies 
that, for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty mile 
« da) , the deil-sticket a five gallopers acqueesh 
Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. 

I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dum- 
bar to Se'craig, and hae forgather'd wi' mony a 
guid fa.low, and monie a weelfar'd hizzie. I 
met wi' twa dink quines in partidar, ane o' 
them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and 
bonie ; the tither was a clean- ^hankit, straught, 
tight, weelfar'd winch, as blithe's a lintwhite 
oa a fiowerie thorn, and as sweet and modest's 
t> new blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They 
were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and 
onie ane o* them had as muckle smeddum and 
rumblgurntion as the half o' some presbytries 
that you and I baith ken. They play'd me sik 
a deevil o' a shavie that I daur say if my hari- 
gals were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the 
heart o' me like the mark o' a kail- whittle in a 
eastock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, 
Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae notouriously 
bitchify'd the day after kail-time that I can 
hardly stoiter but and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and a' our 
common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs Cruik- 
ehank and the honest guidman o* Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be tn Dumfries the morn gif the beast be 
to the fore, and the branks bide hale. 

Gude be wi' you, Willie ! 

Amen !'— 



No. XLV. 



FROM MR JOHN HUTCHINSON. 

Jamaica, St. Ann*s, litth June, 1787. 
SIR, 

I RECEIVED yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Ja- 
nuary, 1787, wherein you acquaint me you were 
engaged with Mr. Douglas of Port Antonio, for 



three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-yetti j 
and am happy some unexpected accidents inttr- 
vened that prevented your sailing with the vo» 
sel, as I have great reason to think Mr. Dou- 
glas's employ would by no menns have answer- 
ed your expectations. I received a copy of yout 
publications, for which I return you my thanks. 
and it is my own opinion, as well as that o.' such 
of my fr'ends as have seen them, they aro most 
excellent in their kind ; although some could 
have wished they had been in the English style, 
as they allege the Scottish dialect is now be- 
coming obsolete, and thereby the elegance and 
beauties of your poems are in a great measi^re 
lost to far the greater part of the community. 
Nevertheless there is no doubt you h id sufllicieiit 
reasons for your conduct — perhaps the wishes 
of some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, your 
patrons, who will always relish their own ( M 
country style; and your own inclinations for 
the same. It is evident from several passages 
1 in your works, you are as capable of writing in 
I the English as in the Scottish dialect, and I am 
in great hopes your genius for poetry, from the 
, specimen you have already given, will turn out 
I both for profit and honour to yourself and 
country. I can by no means advise you now 
to think of coming to the West Indies, as, I 
assure you, there is no encouragement for a 
man of learning and genius here ; and am very 
confident you can do far better in Great Bri- 
tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my 
friends are well, and shall always be happy to 
hear from you at all convenient opportunities, 
wishing you success in all your undertakings. 
I will esteem it a particular favour if you will 
send me a copy of the other edition you are now 
printing. 

I am, with respect. 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 

JOHN HUTCHINSON 



of July, the De^n of Edinburgh prepared to officiate 
in St Giles's. The congregation continued quiet till i 
the service began, when an old woman, impelled by 
sudden indignation, started up, and exclaiming aloud, I 

Villain! dost thou say the Mass at my luo r threw 
the stool on which she had been sitting, at the Dean's 
head. A wild uproar commenced that instant. The , 
service was interrupted. The women invaded the I 
desl with execrations and outcries, and the Dean dis- l 
ent''*g^ himself from his surpllee to escape trom their | 
haads'^^Laifi^s Hist ofScoiiatid, vol. iii. p. 122. I 



No. XL VI. 



TO MR. W. NICOLL. 

Mauchline, June 18, 1787. 

MT DEAR FRIEND, 

I AM now arrived safe in my native country 
after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the plea- 
sure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted 
with your grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr. 
Smith ; and was highly pleased both with the 
cordial welcome he gave me, and his most ex- 
cellent appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswintoa, 
and am to meet him again in August. Fiom 
my view of the lands and his reception of my 
hardship, my hopes in that business are rathei 
a: ended ; but still they are but slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folkn— 
Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, il 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



269 



M maw wlio'n £ sha- ever grstefully remember ; 
and hj wife, Gude forgie me, I had almost 
broke the tentia commandment on her account. 
Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of 
disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are 
»he constituents of her manner and heart ; in 
short — but if I say one word more about her, I 
ar.all be directly in love with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very 
capable of any thing generous ; but the stateli- 
ness of the Patricians in Edinburgh, and the 
servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, per- 
haps, formerly eyed me askance), since I re- 
turned home, have nearly put me out of conceit 
altogether with my species. I have bought a 
pocket Milton which I carry perpetually about 
with me, in order to study the sentiments — the 
dauntless magnanimity ; the intrepid, unyield- 
ing independence, the desperate daring, and 
noble defiance of hardship, in that great per- 
sonage, Satan. 'Tis true, I have just now a 
little CAsh ; but I am afraid the star that hith- 
erto has shed its malignant, purpose-blasting 
rays full in my zenith ; that noxious planet so 
baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I 
much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon. — 
Misfortune dodges the path of human life ; the 
poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged in, 
and unfit for the walks of business ; add to all, 
that, thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, 
like 80 many ignes fatui, eternally diverging 
from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle 
with step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing 
eyes of the poor heedless Bard, till, pop, " he 
falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God 
grant this may be an unreal picture with re- 
spect to me ! but should it not, I have very 
little dependence on mankind. I will close my 
letter with this tribute my heart bids me pay 
you — the many ties of acquaintance and friend- 
ship which I have, or think I have in life, 1 
have felt along the lines, and, d — n them ! they 
are almost all of them of such »rail contexture, 
that I am sure they would not stand the breath 
of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but from 
you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence 
for the Apostolic love that shall wait on me 
" through good report and bad report" — the 
love which Solomon emphatically says " Is 
strong as death." My compliments to Mrs. 
N^coll, and all the circle of our common friends. 

P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter 
tod of July. 



and Stirling, and am Jelighted with fheir ap- 
pearance : richly waving crops of wheat, bai'ley, 
&c. but no harvest at all yet, except in one or 
two places, an old Wife's Ridge. — Yesterday 
morning I rode from this town ap the mean- 
dring Devon's banks to pay my respects to some 
Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, 
we made a party to go and see the famous Cau- 
dron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, 
about five miles above Harvieston ; and after 
spending one of the most pleasant days I ever 
had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the 
evening. They are a family. Sir, though I had 
not had any prior tie ; though they had not been 
the brother and sisters of a certain generom 
friend of mine, I would never forget them. I 
am told you have not seen them these several 
years, so you can have very little idea of what 
these young folks are now. Your brother is a« 
tall as you are, but slender rather than other- 
wise ; and I have the satisfaction to inform you 
that he is getting the better of those consump- 
tive symptoms which I suppose you know were 
threatening him. His make, and particularly 
his manner, resemble you, but he will still have 
a finer fice. (I put in the word still, to pleaae 
Mis. Hamilton.) Gi)od sense, modesty, and at 
the same time a just idea of that respect that 
man owes to man, and has a right in his turn 
to exact, are striking features in his character ; 
.and, what with me is the Alpha and the Ome- 
ga, he has a heart might adorn the breast of a 
poet ! Grace has a good figure and the look of 
health and cheerfulness, but nothing else re- 
inaikable in her person. I scarcely ever saw so 
striking a likeness as is between her and your 
little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. 
She is reserved at first ; but as we grew bett**'- 
acquainted, I was delighted with the native 
frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense 
of her observation. , Of Charlotte, I cannot 
speak in common terms of admiration: she is 
not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is ele- 
gant ; her features not regular, but they have 
the smile of sweetness and the settled compla* 
cency of good nature in the highest degi ee ; am 
her complexion, now that she has happily re. 
covered her wonted health, is equal to Miai 
Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding tc 
the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's 
mistress : 



• Her pure and eloquent blood 
her cheeks, and so distinctly 



No. XL VII. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

MT DBAR SIR, Stirling, ZSth Aug. 1787. 

Here am J on my way to Inverness. I have 



Spoke in 

wrought. 
That one would almost say her body thought.* 

Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive of 
good lense, tenderness, and a noble mind. 

I do not give you all this account, my good 
Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach yon. 
Such relations the first peer in the realrj might 
own with pride ; then why do you not keep up 
more correspondence witt these so amiable 



rambM over the lich, fertile caries of Falkirk young folks? 1 had a ttpusand que8tion^r to 



jr7C 



Bmi'rg's-'" wm^ivS' 



answer about you a'\ . I had to descnbe the 
little ones with the iTiinuteness of aoiitotny. 
They were hii;hly (lelijihtcd whim I told them 
ttat John* \v,^s so irood a boy, and so fine a 
scholar, and that Willie -f was going on still 
very pretty ; but I have it in commission to 
tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly 
bauble without she be good. Miss Chalmers I 
had left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure 
of meeting with Mrs. ChahnerSj only Lady 
M'Kenzie being rather a little alarmingly ill of 
A sore-throat, somewhat marr'd our enjoyment. 
I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. 
My most respectful compliments to Mrs. Ha- 
milton, Miss Kennedy, and Dr. M'Kenzie. I 
shall probably write him from some stage or 
other 

I am ever, Sir, 

Yours most gratefully^ 



No. XL VIII. 

TO MR. WALKER, BLAIR OF 
AT HOI F 

Inverness, bth Sept. 1787. 

MT DEAR SIR, 

I HAVE just time to write the foregoing, \ 
and to tell you that it was (at least most part 
of it), the effusion of an half hour I spent at 
Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I 
have endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr. 

N 's chat, and the jogging of the chaise, 

would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, 
as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his 
debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to 
the noble family of Athole, of the first kind, I 
«hall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the 
last, so help me God in my hour of need, I 
shall never forget. 

The little " angel band ! — I declare I pray- 
ed for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of 
Fyars. I shall never forget the fine family- 
piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly 
noble Duchess, with her smiling little seraph 
in her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely 
*' olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely says, 
round the happy mother ; the beautiful Mrs 

G , the lovely, sweet Miss C. &c. I wish 

I had the powers of Guido to do them justice ! 
My Lord Duke's kind hospitality, markedly 

kind, indeed -Mr G. of F——'s charms of 

conversation — Sir W. M— — 's friendship — in 
short, the recollection of aU that polite, agree- 



♦ This is the ' wee curlie Johnnie," mentioned in 
Bums's dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. To this 
gentleman, and every branch of the family, the Editor 
IS indebted for much information respecting the poet, 
and very gratefully acicnowledges the kindness shewn 
to himself. 

t Now married to the Rev. John Tod, Minister of 
Mauchline. 

t " The humble Petition of Bhiar-Watcr to th« 
Ouke of Athole." 



able coujpany, raisw^ ,ui h cii'^c glj>v iis MVr £.*» 
som. 



No. XLIX. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, I7th Sept. I7S7 

MT DEAR BROTHER, 

I ARRIVED here safe yesterday evenin*;^, aftei 
a tour of ttventy-two days, and travelling near 
six ijjndred miles, windings included. My 
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond In- 
verness. I went through the heart of the 
Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous 
seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, 
among cascades and druidical circles of stones 
to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; 
thence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary 
streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 
Duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- 
ing nearly two days with his Grace and family; 
thence many miles through a wild country, a^ 
mong cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy 
savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down 
the stream through Strathspey, so famous in 
Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. till I reached 
Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed 
the country for Fort George, but called by the 
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeath ; 
there I saw the identical bed in which, tradi- 
ti(m says. King Duncan was murdered: lastly, 
from Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, For- 
res, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to Stone- 
hive, where James Burnes, from Montrose, met 
me by appointment. I spent two days among 
our relations, and found our aunts, Jean and 
Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. John 
Caird, though born the same year with our fa- 
ther, walks as vigorously as I can ; they have 
had several letters from his son in New York. 
William Brand is likewise a stout old fellow : 
but further particulars I delay till I see you, 
which will be in two or three weeks. Th« 
rest of my stages ars not worth rehearsing : 
warm as I was from Ossian's country, where J 
had seen his very grave, what cared I for fish-, 
ing towns or fertile carses ? I slept at the fa- 
mous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined 
at Gordon Castle next day with the Duke, 
Duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause 
my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
Ronald, at Glasgow ; b\it you shall hear farther 
from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty 
and many compliments from the north, to ray 
mother, and my brotherly compliments to the 
rest. Ikave been trying for a birth for Wil- 
liam, bi>: am not likely to be suecessfuL-^ 
FareweL 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



27 i 



No. L. 
FROM MR. R . 

«&» Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1787. 

*TwAS )nly yesterday I got Colonel Edraon- 
rtoun'd a'lswer, that neither the words of 
Down the burn Davie, nor Dainty Davie (I 
forgot which you mentioned), were written by 
Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I meet him, 
I will inquire about his cousin's poetical talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, 
»nd a letter to Mr. Young, whose company and 
musical talents will. I am persuaded, be a feast 
to you.* Nobody can give you better hints, 
as to your present plan, than he. Receive 
also Omeron Cameron, which seemed to make 
such a deep impression on your imagination, 
that I am not without hopes it will beget sonie- 



* These Inscriptions, so much admired by Burnt, 
%re bdow :— 

WRITTEN IN 1768. 

TOR THE SALICTUM AT OCHTERTYRE. 

Salubritatis vnluptatisque causa. 

Hoc Salictum, 

Paludem olim infidam, 

MJhi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hie, procul negotiis strepituque 

Iiinocuis deliciis 

Silvulas inter nascentes reptandi, 

Apiumque labores suspiciendi, 

Fruor, 

Hie, si faxit Deus opt. max. 

Prope hunc fontera pellucidum. 

Cum quaaam juventutis amico superstite, 

Saepe conquiescam, senex, 

^atentus modieis, meoque l«tut • 

Sin alitor — 

iEvique paululum supersit, 

Vos silvuiae, et amici, 

Casteraque amcena, 

Valete, diuque Ictamini 1 



ENGLISHED. 

To improve both air and soil, 

[ dram and decorate this plantation of willows. 

Which was lately an unprofitable morass. 

Here, far from noise and strife, 

I love to wander, 

Now fondly marking the progress of my trees, 

Now studyint:; the bee, its arts and manners. 

Here, if it pleases Almighty God, 

May I often rest in the evening of life. 

Near that transparent fountain. 

With some surviving friend of my youtiu 

Contented with a competency. 

And happy with ray lot 
If vain these humble wishes. 
And life draws near a close. 

Ye trees and friends, 

And whatever else is dear. 

Farewell, and long may ye Oourish. 



4BOVE THE DOOR OP THE HOUSE. 

WRITIEN IN 177.5. 

MiHi raeisqiie utinam contingil 

Prof e Taichi marginem, 

Avito in Agello, 

Rene vivs-e faustequs mori ! 



thing to delight tht public in Ctiie time : and, 
no doubt, the circun.stances of this little tale 
might be varied or extended, so as to make 
part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds 
might have kept Omeron at home, whilst his 
coantrymen were in the field. His station 
may be somewhat varied, without losing his 
simplicity and kindness .... A group 
of characters, male and female, connected with 
the plot, might be formed from his family, or 
some neighbouring one of rank. It is not in- 
dispensable that the guest should be a man of 
high station ; nor is the political quarrel in 
which he is engaged, of much importance, un- 
less to call forth the exercise of generosity and 
faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. 
To introduce state affairs, would raise the 
style above comedy ; though a small spice oJ 
them would season the converse of swains. 
Upon this head I cannot say more than to re- 
commend the study of the character of Eumaeus 
in the Odyssey, which, in Mr. Pope's transla- 
tion, is an exquisite and mvaluable drawing 
from nature, that would suit some of our coiin* 
try elders of the pieserit day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happj 
discovery ; and peace and psicion may be the 
reward of hospitality, and honest attachment 
to misguided principles. When you have once 
thought of a plot, and brought the story into 
form, Dr. Blackl<ick, or Mr. H. Mackenzie, 
may be useful in dividing it into acts and 
scenes ; for in these matters one must pay 
some attention to certain rules of the drama. 
These you could afterwards fill up at your lei- 
sure. But, whilst I presume to give a few 
well-meant hints, let me advise you to study 
the spirit of my namesake's dialogue, * which 
is natural without being low, and, uuder the 
trammels of verse, is such as country people in 
their situations speak every day. You have 
only to bring down your own strain a very lit- 
tle. A great plan, such as this, would con- 
center all your idea-*, which facilitates the exe- 
cution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. 

I approve of your plan of retiring from din 
and dissipation to a farm of very moderate size, 
.'sufficient to find exercise for mind and body, 
but not so great as to absorb better things. 
And if some intellectual pursuit be well chosen 
and steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative 
than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- 
ment. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and 
admirer, permit me to go a step fartler. Let 



BNOLISHED. 



On the banks of the Teith, 

In the small but sweet inheritance 

Of my fathers. 

May I and mine live in peace, 

And die in joyful hope ! 



These inscriptions, and ths trsnslations, are in tin 

kand.writing of Mr. R 

♦ Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shepherd. 



272 



BURNS* WORKS. 



those bright tilents which the Almighty has 
bestowed on you, bi Lenceforth employed to 
the noble purpose of supporting the cause of 
truth and virtue. An imagination so varied 
and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- 
ferent modes ; nor is it necessary to be always 
serious, which you have been to good purpose ; 
good morals may be recommended in a comedy, 
or wen in a song. Great allowances are due 
to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and 
few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never 
havi.ig written a line, which, dying, they would 
wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to 
keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which 
makes a man a hundred enemies for one friend, 
and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed 
to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi 
duals to their sect or party. About modes of 
faith, serious and excellent men have always 
differed ; and there are certain curious ques- 
tions, which may afford scope to men of raeta 
physical heads, but seldom mend the heart or 
temper. Whil^it these points are beyond hu- 
man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects con- 
cur in their views of morals. You will forgive 
me for tliese hints. 

Well ! what think you of good lady C. ? 



N^ LI. 
FROM MR. W 



Athole House, I3th September, 178*, 
Your letter of the 5th reached me only ot 
the llth; what awkward route it had taken ! 
know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure 
of writing to you in the manner yo i proposed, 
as you must have left Dundee before a letter 
could possibly havi got there. I hope your 
disappointment on being forced to leave us wa» 
as gieat as appeared from your expressions. 
This is the best cc»nsolation for the greatness 
of ours. I still think with vexation on that 
ill-timed indisposition which lost me a day's 
enjoyment of a man (I speak without flattery) 
possessed of those very dispositions and talents 

I most admire ; one 

You know how anxious the Duke 
was to have another day of you, and to let Mr. 
Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation 
as the best dainty with which he could enter- 
tain an honoured guest. You know likewise 
the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; 
but perhaps you do not know the scheme 
which they devised, with their usual ferti'ity 



It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indis- j Jq ,-esources. One of the servants was sent to 
tinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- your driver to brihe him to loosen or pull off a 
sions of our gentry of the last age, when hos- j shoe from one of his horses, but the ambu»b 
pitaiity and elevation of mind were conspicu- | 

ous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. iL - ^t. a ^ % ^ , . . ■ ,. ,.,,:. 

, ,, , 1 1 .. I. r . i- -e .^before the fire, and plenty of innirieh^ or Highland 

shall be glad to hear trora you at times, if it soup, prepared to conclude their meal.— The whole f*. 
were no more than to show that you take the mily and their guest ate heartily, and the eveninsj waa 
effusions of an obscure man like me in good EcherfuVfi?e.^'^Btimrcare;^O^t^L^'b^ 
part. I beg my best respects to Dr. and Mrs. 
Bhicklock,* 
And am, Sir, 



Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



* TALE OP OMERON CAMERON. 

Iw one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland 
and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl of 
Mar (a distinguished character in the fifteenth cen- 
tury), and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had the 
command of the royal army. They marched into 
Lochaber, with a view of attacking a body of M'Don- 
aids, commanded by Donald Ralloch, and posted upon 
an arm of ihe sea whiL-h intersects that country. Hav- 
ing timely intelligence of their approach, the insur- 
gents got off precipitately to the opposite shpre in their 
Euraghs, or boats covered with skins. The king's 
troops encamped .n full security; but theM'Donalds, 
returning about midnight, surprised them, killed the 
Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the whole 



the hearth, spread the cow hide upon it, and desired 
the stranger to lie down. The Earl wrai)pcd his plaid 
about him, and slept sound on the hide, whilst the 
family betook themselves to rest in a corner of the 
same room. 



Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and at 
his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew 
whom he had entertained? " You rr.ay probably," 
answered he, •' be one of the king's officers ; but who- 
ever you are, you came here in distress, and here it 
was my duty to protect you, To what my cottage 
aff.)rded, you are most welcome." — " Your guest, 
then," rej)lied the other, " is the Earl of Mai : and if 
hereafter you fall into any misfortune, fail not to come 
to the castle of Kildrummie." — " My blessing be with 
you ! 1 oble stranger," said Omeron ; '" if I am ever in 
distress, you shall soon see me." 

The royal army was soon after re-assembled ; and the 
insurgents, finding themselves unable to make head 
ag linst it, di-persed. The M'Donalds, however, got 
notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and 
forced him to fly the country. He came with his wife 
and children to the gate of Kildrummie Castle, and 
required atlmittance with a confidence which hardly 
corresponded with his habit and appearance. The 



army. 

The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any 
attendants, and made for the more hilly part of the . ^ u u- j i v.- t j u- - . j- j 

country. In the course of his flight he came to the' P"'"!?''^o'l!'!:!':"'^^'y' ^'^^V'^^ship was at dinner, a.id 
house of a poor man, v^ hose name las Omeron Came- j ">"** "°^ *^ disturbed. He berame noisy and .mpor- 
rcn. The landlord welcomed his guest with the ut„ ^""'.'{f ; -f '^*'^"' name was announmi. Upon hear, 
most kindness; but, as there was no'meat in the house, I >"f [^^ ^l::^^^?^^^^^:}'^^^:^!':]:?^/!^ 



he told his wife he would directly kill Moot Odhar, f ?'^ f'f • ""^ If f *^ *« have exclaimed in asortof poe- 
to fsed the stranger. " K'll our only cow !" said she, ' ^'if'/^f.^f,^- '.' "^^^ ^ ^'^^^ •'" -*"? ''«^''^' ^'^'^ ^'^'^^ 
"our own and our little " " """" 

More attentive, liowever, 



"iren's principal support I 
the present call for hospi- 



most plentifully ; but naked of clothes was mv bed. 
Omeron from Breugach is an excellent fellow!" He 



tality, than to the remonstrances of his wife, or the' ITf^ m roduoecl into the great hall and revived with 
future exigencies of his family, he killed the cow. ' *! 'welcome he deserved. Upon hearing now he ha4 
ITie beet and tendcrest parts wete immediately roasted [{^" ^rr^te^x, the Earl gave him a four merk land neai 



* Moo) Odhar, t. e. the brown humble oow. 



there are still in the country 
a number of Camerons descended of this Highlanc 
Eurasus. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



27^ 



failed. Prnh mitun ! The driver was incor- 
'mptiblt. Your verses have given us much 
delight, and I think will produce their proper 
effect.* They produced a powerful one im- 
mediately ; for the morning after I read them, 
we all set out ia procession to the Bruar, where 
none of the ladies had bee! i these seven or 
eight years, and again enjoyed them there. 
The passages we most admired are the descrip- 
tion of the dying trouts. Of the high fall 
" twisting strength," is a happy picture of the 
upper part. The characters of the birds, 
" mild and mellow," is the thrush itself. The 
benevolent anxiety for their happiness and safe- 
ty I highly aj)prove. The two stanzas be- 
ginning " Keie haply too" — darkly dashing is 
jDost descriptively Ossianic. 



Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure of 
mentioning an incident which happened yester- 
day at the Bruar. As we passed the door of a 
most miserable hovel, an old woman curtsied 
to us with locks of such poverty, and such con- 
tentment, that each of us involuntarily gave her 
some money. She was astonished, and in the 
confusion of her gratitude, invited us in. Miss 
C. and I, that we might not hurt her delicacy, 
entered — but, good God, what wretchedness ! 
It was a cow-house — her own cottage had been 
burnt last winter. The poor old creature stood 
perfectly silent — looked at Miss C. then to the 
money, and burst into tears — Miss C. joined 
her, and, with a vehemence of sensibility, took 
out her purse, and emptied it into the old wo- 
man's lap. What a charming scene ! — A sweet 
accomplished girl of seventeen in so angelic a 
situation! Take your pencil and paint her in 

your most glowing tints Hold her up amidst 

the darkness of this scene of human woe, to the 
icj' dames that flaunt through the gaieties of life, 
without ever feeling one generous, one great 
emotion. 

Two days after you left us, 1 went to Tay- 
mouth. It is a charming place, but still I 
think art has been too busy. Let me he your 
Ciceroue for two days at Dunkeld, and you 
will acknowledge that in the Ijeauties of naked 
nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the 
Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, 
gave me most delight. But I. think the last 
has not been taken proper advantage of. The 
hermitage is too much in the coinmon-pl^ce 
style. Every body exp'^cts the couch, the book- 
press, a d the hairy gown. The Duke's '.dea 
! think better. A rich and elegant apartment 
is an excellent contrast to a scene of Alpine 
taorrois 

I must now beg your permission (unless you 
have some other design) o have your verses 
printed. They appear to me extremely cor- 



• •• The h>-mble imtition o^ Bruar. Water to the 
DttkfiofAthole." 

• 3 



rect, and some particular stanzas woald give 
universal pleasure. Let me know, however, if 
you incline to give them any farther touches. 

Were tiiey in some of the public papers, w« 
could more easily disseminate them among our 
friends, which many of us are anxious to do. 

When you pay your promised visit to the 
Braes of Ochtertyre, Mr. and Mrs. Graham of 
Balgowan beg to have the pleasure of conduct- 
ing you to the bower of Bessy Sell and Mary 
Gray, which is now in their possession. The 
Duchess would give any consideration for an- 
other sight of your letter to Dr. Moore ; we 
must fall upon some methoti -f procuring it for 
her. I shall enclose this to our mutual friend 

Dr. B , who may forward it. I shall be 

extremely happy to hear from you at your first 
leisure. Enclose your letter in a cover address- 
ed to the Duke of Athole, Dunkeld. 
God bless you, 

J- ~ 



No. LIL 



FROM MR. A- 



M- 



siR, Qth October, 1787. 

Having just arrived from abroad, I had youf 
poems put into my hands: the pleasure I re- 
ceived in reading them, has induced me to so- 
licit your liberty to publish them anjongst a 
number of our countrymen in America, (tc 
which place I shall shortly return), and wher« 
they will be a treat of such excellence, that i 
would be an injury to your merit and their feeU 
ing to prevent their appearing in public. 

Receive the following hastily-writtea Imei 
from a well-wisher. 



Fair fa* your pen, my dainty Rob» 

Your leisom way o* writing. 
Whiles, glowring o'er your warks 1 8ob> 

Whiles lau<^h, whiles downright greeting 
Your sonsie tykes may charm a chiel, 

Their words are wondrous bonny. 
But gnid Scotch drink the truth does siM 

It is as guid as ony 

Wi* you this day. 

Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nae hut think. 

Ye did the poor thing wrang. 
To leave her tether'd on the brink 

Of stank sae wide and laug ; 
Her dying words upbraid ye aair. 

Cry fye on your neglect ; 
Guid faith ! gin ye had got play fair 

This deed had stretch 'd your neck 

That mouriifu* d«g^ 

But, wae's me, how dare I fin* fant, 
Wi' sic d winsome bardie. 



£74. 

Wh;i groat a*i' stua's heg-tn to daut. 

And t.ik' hiir\ hy the gardie ; 
»t sets iia oriy lawlaiul diiel, 

Like you to verse or rhyme, 
For few like you can fley the de*il, 

And skelp auld wither'd Time 
On ony day. 

It's fair to praise ilk canty callao, 

Be he of purest fame, 
If he but tries to raise as Allan, 

Auld Scotia's bonny name ; 
To you, therefore, in hamble rhyme, 

Better 1 canna gi'e, 
And the' it's but a swatch of thine, 

Accept these lines frae me, 

Upo' this day. 

Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, 

Frae that e'en to the line, 
In ilka place wiiere Scotsmen bleed. 

There shall your hardship shine ; 
Ilk honest chiel wha reads your buick, 

Will there aye meet a brither. 
He lang may seek, and lang will look, 

Ere he fin* sic anither 

On ony day 

Feart that my cruicket verse should spairge 

Some wark of wordie mak*, 
I'se uae mair o* this head enlarge, 

But now my farewell tak' : 
Lang may you live, lang may you write. 

And sing like English Weischell, 
This prayer I do myself indite. 

From yours still, A M— — — , 

This very day. 



BURNS* WORKS. 



up the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into ane 
bard a portion of his enthusiasm for those ne- 
glected airs, which do not suit the fastidion* 
musicians of the pre.«ent hour. But if it b#» 
true that Corelli (whom I looked on as the 
Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof 
of their taste ; — this, however, is going out of 
my province. You can show Mr. Burns the 
manner of singing these same luiniys ; and, it 
he can humour it in words, I do not despair oi 
seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the 
original style, round a napkin. 

I am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel- 
dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the 
greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that 
one has so few opportunities of cultivating ac- 
quaintances at a distance. I hope, however, 
some time or other, to have the pleasure oi 
beating up your quarters at Erskine, and oi 
hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile 
I beg to be remembered to Messrs. Boog and 
Myloe. 

If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on 

our friend Mr. Stuart, who, 1 presume, doei 
not dread the frown of his diocesan. 
1 am, Dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY 



No. LIII. 
FROM MR. J. RAMSAY, 

TO THE 

REVEREND W. YOUNG, at Erskinb. 

LEAR SIR, Ochtertyre, 22d Oct. 1787. 

Allow me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose 
poems, 1 dare say, have given you much plea- 
t^iiie. Upon a personal acquaintance, I doubt 
sot, you will relish the man as much as his 
works, in which there is a rich vein of intel- 
lectual ore. He has heard some of our High- 
land haniys of songs played, which delighted 
III in so much itkat he has made words to one 
01- two ,ot thesra, which will render these more 
popular As he lias thought of being in your 
qwattfi-, f am persaaded you will not think it 
jiiln H,r ;lost to indulge the poet of nature with a 
liiijilc (,f those sweet a,rt3es« melodies, which 
Li„ii M.nit to he marrifd .{ijn Mihon's phrase) 
to n:< luijeniaj vua-d& I wish V6 could conjure 



No. LIV. 
FROM MR. RAMSAY, 

TO 

DR. BLACKLOCK. 

DEAR SIR, Ochtertyrt, 21th Oct. 1787. 

I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and giv* 
you many thanks for giving ine an opportunity 
of conversing with a man of his calibre. He 
will, I doubt not, let you know what passed be- 
tween us on the subject of my hints, to which I 
have made additions, in a letter sent him t'other 
day to your care. 



You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see hint 
that Colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, 
that his cousin, Colonel George Crawford, wai 
no poet, but a great singer of songs ; but that 
his eldest brother Robert (by a former marriage) 
had a great turn that way, having written the 
words of Ihe Bush ai/oon Traquair, and 
Twetdside. That the Mary to whom it was 
addressed was Mary Stewart of the Castlemilk 
family, afterwards wif^" of Mr. John Relches. 
The Colonel never saw Kobeit Crawford, though 
he was at his burial fifty-live yeafs ago. He 
was a pretty young man, and had lived l'»nir in 
1 ranee. Lady Ankei ville is his niece, and ma7 
know more of his poetical vein. An epit&pK 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



276 



*Doa(^gr like me might moralize ui>oa the vanity took such uncomn\on p;i\ns to instil into your 



»f life, and the vanity of those sweet effusions. 
—But I have hardly room to offer my best com- 
pliments to Mrs. Blacklock ; and I am, 
Dear Doctor, 
Your most obedient Humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



minds from your earliest infancy ' May yoft live 
as he did ! if you do, you can never be unhappy. 
I feel myself grown serious all at once, and af- 
fected in a manner 1 cannot describe. I shall 
only add, that it is one of the greatest pleasures 
r promise myself before I die, that of seeing the 
family of a man whose memory I revere more 
than that of any person that ever I was aa- 
No. LV quainted with. 

I am, my dear Friend, 
FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MORDOCH. 
«!■ DEAR SIR, London, 2Sth Oct. 1787. 

As my friend, Mr. Brown, is going from this 
place to your neighbourhood, I embrace the op- 
portunity of telling you that I am yet alive, to- 
erahly well, and always in expectation of being 
better. By the much-valued letters before me, I 
see that it was my duty to have given you this in- 
telligence about three years and nine months ago ; 
and have nothing to allege as an excuse but that 
we poor, busy, bustling bodies in London, are so 
much taken up with the various pursuits in which 
we are here engaged, that we seldom think of 
»ny person, creature, place, or thing, that is ab- 
sent. But this is not altogether the case with 
me ; for I often think of you, and Hornie, and 
Ifussel, and an unfathomed depth, and lowan 
brunstane, all in the same minute, although you 
and they are (as I suppose) at a considerable dis- 
tance. I flatter myself, however, with the pleas- j 
ing thought, that you and I shall meet some 
time or other either in Scotland or England. 
If ever you come hither, )'ou will have the satis- 
faction of s^eeing your poems relished by the Ca- 
ledonians in London, full as much as they can 
be by those of Edinburgh We frequently re- 
peat some of your verses in our Caledonian so- 
ciety ; afld you may believe, that I am not a 
little vain that I have had some share in culti- 
vating such a genius. I was not absolutely cer- j in company w<!th a great many other poems and 
tain that you were the author, till a few days a- | verses, some of the writers of which are no less 
l',o, when I made a visit to Mrs. Hill, Dr. I eminent for their political than for their poetical 
M'Comb's eldest daughter, who lives m town, | abdi ties. When the Duchess was informed that 
and who told me tl.at she was informed of it by | you were the author she wished you had written 
t letter from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom I the vers»« in Scotch. 



No. LVL 

FROM MR. 

SIR, Gordon Castle, 31st October, 1737. 

If you were not sensible of your fault as well 
as of your loss in leaving this place so sudrlenly, 
I should condemn you to starve upon cnuld kail 
for ae towmont at least ; and as for X}ick La- 
tine,* your travelling companion, without ban- 
ning him w'C a' the curses contained in your let- 
ter, (which he'll no value a bawbee), I should 
give him nought but Stra'bogie castocks to chew 
for sax ouks, or aye until he was as sensible of 
his error as you seem to be of yours. 



Your song I showed without producing the 
author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be 
the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent a copy of 
it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs. M'Pherson 
in Badenoch, who sings Morag and all other 
Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have re- 
corded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, 
"n a book belonging to her ladyship, where it Ls 



jroH had been in company when in that capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any intention 
jf visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis? It 
leould afford matter for a large poem. Here you 
ivould have an opportunity of indulging your 
rein in the study of mankind, perhaps to a great- 
er degree than in any city upon the face of the 
globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as you 
kuow are a collection of all nations, kindreds, 
and tongues, who make it, as it were, the ceatre 
Df their commerce. 



Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
rest o' her amiable children. May the Father 
of the aniverse bless vou all with those princi- 
ples and dispositioi. that the best of parents 



Any letter directed to me here will come t« 
hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cover, 
it will likewise come free ; that is, as long as the 
Duke is in this country. 

I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 



No LVIL 

FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

SIR, Linshart, Mth Nov. 1787. 

Your kind return without date, but of post, 
mark October 25th, came to my hand only this 
day ; and. to testify my punctuality to my po. 



• Mr. NicoiL 



276 



BURNS' WORKS. 



etic engagement, I sit down immief/iately to an- 
swer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of ray 
poor but ju^t encomiums on your surprising ge- 
nius, and your opinion of my rhyming excur- 
sions, are both, I think, by far too high. The 
difference between our two tracts of education 
and ways of life is entirely in your favour, and 
gives you the preference every manner of way. 
' know a classical education will not create a 
versifying ta^te, but it mightily improves and as- 
sists it ; and though, where both these meet, 
there may sometimes be ground for approbation, 
vet where taste appears single, as it were, and 
neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, 
I will always sustain the justiceof its prior claim 
to ajjiplause. A small portion of taste, this way, 
I have had almost from childhood, especially in 
tlie old Scottish dialect : and it is as old a thing 
as I remember, my fondness for Christ hirk o' 
the Green, which 1 had by heart ere I was 
twelve years of age, and which, some years ago, 
I attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I 
was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things ; 
but, on getting the black go^vn, I gave it pretty 
much over, till my daughters grew up, who, be- 
ing all good singers, plagued me f'— words to 
some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted 
these effusions, which have mad« a public appear- 
ance beyond my expectations, and contrary to 
my intentions, at the same time that I hope there 
is nothing to be found in them uncharacter- 
istic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I would 
always wish to sej respected. 

As to the assistance you propose from me in 
the ur.dertaking you are engaged in, * I am sorry 
I cannot give it so far as I could wish, and you, 
perhaps, expect. My daughters, who were my 
orjly intelligencers, are iW foris familiate, and 
the old woman their mother has lost that taste- 
There are two from my own pen, which I might 
give you, if worth the while. One to the old 
Scotch tune of Z)umbarton's Drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, as 
vonr noble friend the Duchess has, I am told, 
hoard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a 
brother parson in her neighbourhood, to accom- 
modate a new Highland reel for the Marquis's 
birth-day, to the stanza of 

<' Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may 
have it from a brother of mine, Mr. James Skin- 
ner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, can 
give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing, I have heard 
said to be done by the Catholic priest Geddes, 
and which hit my taste much : 

'' Tb?re was a weewifeikie was coming frae the 

fair. 
Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her 

meikle care ; 



It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she began ti 

spew, 
And quo* the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna foa 
I wish, 8fc. Sfc, 

I have heard of another new composition, Dy 
a young ploughman of my acquaintance, that I 
am vastly pleased with, to the tune of 7%e hu- 
mours of Glen, which I fear won't do, as the 
music, I am told, is of Irish original. I have 
mentioned these, such as they are, to show my 
readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my 
mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have 
in hand, and which I wish all success to. You 
have only to notify your mind, and what you 
want of the above shall be sent you. 

Meantime, while you are thus publicly, 1 
may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined t« 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue and 
morality, delivered in your amusing style, and 
from such as you, will operate more than dozens 
would do from such as me, who shall be told it 
is our employment, and be never more minded : 
whereas, from a pen like yours, as being one ol 
the many, what comes will be admired. Ad- 
miration will produce regard, and regard will 
leave an impression, especially when exatnpk 
goes along. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said. 

And sic like fry. 
Maun aye be harland in their trade, 

And sae maun I. 

Wishing you from my poet-pen, all success, 
and in my other character, all happiness and 
heavenly direction, 

I remain, with esteem. 

Your sincere fr-^nd, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



• '< A plan of publishing a completa collection of 
*«ottish Songs," && 



No. LVIII. 

FROM MRS. ROSS. 

SIR. Kilravock Castle, 30th Nov. 1787. 

I HOPE you will do me the justice to believe, 
that it was no defect in gratitude for your 
punctual performance of your parting promise, 
that has made me so long in ackn« wledging it, 
but merely the difficulty I had in getting the 
Highland songs you wished to have, accurately 
noted ; they are at last enclosed : but how shaJ. 
I convey along with them those graces they ac-- 
quired from the melodious voice of one of the 
fair spirits of the hill of Kildrummie ! These 1 
must leave to your imagination to supply. I 
has powers sufficient to transport you to het 



CCRRESPONDENCE. 



877 



<nAe, to recall her accents, aniJ to make them 
still viorate m the ears of meir.ory. To her I 
am indebted for ge;ting the enclosed notes. 
They are clothed with " thoughts that breathe, 
and words th&t burn." These, however, being 
in an unknown tongue to you, you must again 
have recourse to that same fertile imagination 
of yours to interpret them, and suppose a lover's 
description of the beauties of an adored mistress 
— why did I say unknown ? The language of 
love is an universal one, that seems to have 
escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be un- 
derstood by all nations. 

I rejoitre to find that you were pleased with 
8o many things, persons, and places iu your 
northern tour, because it leads me to hope vou 
may be induced to revisit them again. That 

the old c.jitle of K k, and its inhabitants, 

were amongst these, adds to my satisfaction. I 
am even vain enough to admit your very flat- 
tering application of the line of Addison's ; at 
any rate, allow me to believe that '* friendship 
will maintain the ground she has occupied" iu 
both our hearts, in «pite of absence, and that, 
when we do meet, it will he as acquaintance of 
a score of years standing ; and on this footing, 
consider me as interested in the future course of 
your fame, so splendidly commenced. Any 
communications of the progress of your muse 
will be received with <(ieat gratitude, and the 
fire of your genius will have power to warm, 
even us, frozen sisters of the north. 

The friends of K -k and K— — — e 



tnends f»f Job, of aHfliction-bearing meraorvi 
when tliey sat down with him seven iays aud 
seven nights, and spake not a word. 



unite in cordial regards to you. When you in- 
•line to figure either in your idea, suppose some 
xfi us reading your poems, and some of us singing 
your songs, and tf- little Hugh looking at your 
picture, and you'll seldom be wrong. We re- 
member Mr. N. with as mui.ti good will as we 
do any body, who hurried Mr. Rums from us. 
Farewell, Sir, I can only contribute the 
widoiv's mite to the esteem and admiration ex- 
cited by your merits and genius, but this I give 
as she did, \rith all my heart— 'being sincerely 
ffurs, £. R. 



No. LIX. 

TO DALRYMPLE, Esq. OF 

ORANGEFIELD. 

DBA a SIR, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I SUFPOSE tne devil is so elated with his suc- 
cess with you, that he is determined by a coup 
de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
•nre, in making you a poet. I broke open the 
fetter you sent me ; bummed over the rhymes ; 
and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- 
self they were very well : but when I saw at 
the bottom a name that I shall ever value with 
grateful ri,'K|)ect, " I gapit wide hut naething 
wp.tk." I was nearly as much struck as the 



I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as 
soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained 
its consciousness and resumed its functions, I 
cast about what this mania of yours might por- 
tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch 
of possibility ; and several events, great in their 
magnitude, and important in their consequences, 
occurred to my fancy. The dowiifal of the 
conclave, or the crushing of the cork rumps ; a 

ducal coronet to Lord George G and th« 

pvotestant interest ; or St. Peter's keys to . • 

You want to know how I come on. I am 
just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman 
with my Latin, " in auld use and wont." The 
noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand 
to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, 
with a goodness like that benevolent being, 
whose image he so richly bears. He is a 
stronger proof of the immortality of the soul, 
than any that philosophy ever produced. A 
mind like his can never die. Let the worship- 
ful squire, H. L. or the reverend Mass J. M. 
go into their primitive nothing. At best they 
are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of 
them strongly tinged with bituminous particles 
and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble pa- 
tron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimi- 
ty, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall 
look on with princely eye at " the war of ele- 
ments, the wreck of matter, aad the crash of 
worlds." 



The following fragments are all that now ex- 
ist of twelve or fourteen of the finest letters 
that Burns ever wrote. In an evil hour, the 
originals were thrown into the fire by the 
late Mrs. Adair of Scarborough ; the Char- 
lotte so often mentioned in this correspon- 
dence, and the lady to whom " The Banki 
of the Devon" is addressed. E. 

No. LX. 

TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS, 

(now MRS. HAY, OF EDINBUUGh). 

Sept. 26, 1787. 
I SEND Charlotte the first number of the 
songs ; I would not wait for the second num- 
ber ; I hate delays in little marks of friend- 
ship, as I hate dissimulation in the language o» 
the heart. I am determined to pay Charlotte 
a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some 
glorious old Scotch air, in number second.* 

• of the Scois Musical Must'uro 



278 



BURNS* WORKS. 



You will set a small attempt on a shred of pa^ 
per iu the book ; but though Dr. Blacklock 
commended it very highly, I am not just satis- 
fied with it myself. I intend to make it de- 
•cription of some kind : the whining cant of 
love, except in real passion, and by a masterly 
wnd, is to me as insuflFerable as the preaching 
tSflnt of old Father Smeaton, Whig-minister at 
Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, cupids, loves, graces, 
and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline 
. — a senseless rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
from the old, venerable author of Tullochgo- 
rum, John of Badeiiyon, &c. I suppose you 
know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest 
poetic compliment I ever got. I will send you 
a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries to 
wait on Mr. Miller about his farms. — Do tell 
that to Lady M'Kenzie, that she may give me 
credit for a little wisdom. " I wisdom dwell 
with prudence." What a blessed fire-side ! 
How happy should I be to pass a winter even- 
ing under their venerable roof! and smoke a 
pipe of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them ! 
What solenm, lengthened, laughter-quashing 
gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the 
good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- 
cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as 
we straitened the lire-side circle, on the uses of 
the poker and tongs ! 

Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remem- 
bered in the old way to you. I used all my 
eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the 
hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods 
in my power, to urge her out to Herveiston, 
but all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to 
have lost its effect on the lovely half of man- 
kind. I have seen the day — but that is a " tale 
of other years." — In my conscience I believe 
that my heart has been so olt on fire that it is 
absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with 
sotnething like the admiration with which I re- 
gard the starry sky in a frosty December night. 
I admire the beauty of the Creator's workman- 
ship ; I am charmed with the wild but grace- 
ful eccentricity of their motions, and — wish 
them good night. I mean this with respect to 
a certain passion dont f at eu Vkonneur d'etre 
un miserable esclave : as for friendship, you 
and Charlotte have given me pleasure, perma- 
nent pleasure, " which the world cannot give, 
nor take away," I hope ; and which u^U oui 
last the heavens and the earth. 



our family), I am determined, if my Duin(irie| 
business fail me, to return into partnership with 
him, and at our leisure take another farm ia 
the neighbourhood. I assure you I look fof 
high compliments from you and Clwrlotte OD 
this very sage instance of my unfathomable, iu- 
comprehensibK; wisdom. Talking of Charlotte, 
I must tell her that I have to the b«st of mj 
power, paid her a poetic compliment, now com- 
pleted. The air is admirable : true old High- 
land. It was the tune of a Gaelic song whicb 
an Inverness lady snng me when I w.is there ; 
and I was so charmed with it that I beg jed htt 
to write me a set of it from her singing ; for it 
had never been set before. I a.n fixed that it 
shall go iu Johnson's next number ; so Ch&. ■• 
lotte and you need not spend your precious timt 
in contradicting me. I won't say the poetry ia 
first-rate ; though I am convinced it is very 
well : and, what is not always the case with 
compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere but 
just. 

{Here follows the song of " The Banks ofthi 
Devon.") 



Without date. 
I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit 
more shall be decided about a farm in that coun- 
try. I am rather hopeless in it ; but as my 
brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, 
an exceedingly prudent, sober mm, (qualities 
which are only a younger brother's fortune in 



Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 
I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly- 
welcome, well filled sheet which 1 owe to your 
and Charlotte's goodness — it contains too much 
sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im> 
possible that even you two, whom 1 declare to 



ly God, 



will 



red''t for 



^»<rree of 



excellence the sex are cap-ible of attaining, it is 
impossible you can go on to ci)rrespond at that 
rate ; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire 
because they have made a good speech, I shall 
after a few letters hear no more «)*" you. 1 in 
sist that you shall write whatever (omes first 
what you see, what you read, what you hear, 
what }rou admire, what you dislike, trifles, bag- 
atelles, nonsense; or to till up a corntr, e'en 
put down a laugh at full length. Now none 
of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that 
to your lovers, if you have or shall have ai:y : 
though thank heaven I have found at last two 
girls who can be luxririantly happy in their 
own minds and with one another, without that 
commonly necessary appendage to female bliss, 

A LOVEIl. 

Charlctte and you are just two favourite rest- 
i«ig places for my soul in her wanderings through 
the weary, thorny wilderness of this world- 
God knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : 1 
glory in being a Poet, and I want to be though) 
a wise man — I would fondly be generous, ani 
I wish to be rich. After all, I am afiaid I am 
a lost subject. " Some folk hae a hantle rt 
fauts, an* I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon. — To close the melancholy reflec- 
tions at the end of last sheet, I shall just add % 
piece of devotion commonly known in Carrickt 
by the title of the ** Wabster's grace." 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



279 



'' Some say we're fhievrs, and e'en sae are we, 
Some say we iie, and ee.u sae do we ! 
Guide forgie us, and I nope sae will he ! 
Up auQ io your looms, lads.** 



Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with 
ft bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and the 
tints of my mind vyin^ with the livid horror 
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drun- 
ken coachman was the cause of the first, and 
incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo- ' 
dily constitution, hell and myself, have formed 
a " Quadruple Alliance" to guarantee the other. 
I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slow- 
ly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the bible, and 
am got through the five books of Moses, and 
half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious 
book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and 
ordered him to get mean octavo bible in sheets, 
the best paper and print in town; and bind it 
with all the elegance of his craft. 

I would give my best song to my worst ene- 
my, I mean the merit of making it, to have you 
and Charlotte by me. You are angelic crea- 
tures, and would pour oil and wine into my 
wounded spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of 
the Devon," which present with my best wishes 
to Charlotte. The " Ochil-hills," you shall 
probably have next week for yourself. None of 
your fine speeches ! 



banners of imagin^ition; whim, capiice, ani 
passion ; and the heavy-armed veteran regulars 
of wisdom, pruiLf.nce and fore-thought, move so 
very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of 
perpetual warfare, and alas ! frequent defeat. 
There are just two creatures tlat I would envy, 
a horse in his wild state traversing the foresti 
of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert 
shores of Europe. The one has not a w isb 
without enjoyment, the other has neither wish 
Dor fear. 



Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1787. 

I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 
I7rii current, which is not yet cold since I read 
it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer 
than when I wrote yi'U last. For the first time, 
yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It 
would do your heart good too see my hardship, 
not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; 
throwing my best leg with an air ! and with 
as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, 
•s a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed 
ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed 
earth after the long-expected shower ! 



Edinburgh, March 14, 1788. 
I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will 
be pleased with the news when I tell you, 1 
have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yester~ 
night I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, 
of Dalswinton, for the farm of Ellisland, on the 
banks of the Nith, between five and six miles 
above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsunday to 
build a house, drive lime, &c. and heaven be 
my help ! for it w^ill take a strong effort to 
bring my mind into the routine of business. I 
have discharged all the army of my former pur- 
suits, fancies and pleasures ; a motley host ! and 
have literally and strictly retained only the ideas 
of a few frienils, which I have incorporated into 
a life-gnanl. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observa- 
tion, " Where much is attempted, something is 
done." Firmness both in sufferance and exer- 
tion, is a character I would wish to be thought 
to possess ; and havt -ilways despised the whin- 
ing yelp of complaint, And the cowardly, feeble 
resolve. 



Poor Miss K. IS ailing a good deal this win- 
ter, and begged nie to remember her to you the 
first time I wrote you. Surely woman, amiable 
woman, is often made in vain I Too delicately 
formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; 
too noble for the diit of avarice, and even too 
gentle for tht- rage of pleasure : forn)ed indeed 
for and highly susceptible of enjoyment and rap- 
ture ; but that enjoyment, alis ! almost wholly 
at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupi- 
dity, or wickedness of an animal at all times 
comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal. 



I can't say I am altogether at my ease when 
I see any where in my path, that meagre, squa- 
lid, famine- faced spectre, poverty ; attended as 
he always is, by iron- fisted oppression, and leer- 
ing contempt ; but I have sturdily withstood 
lis buffetings many a hard- laboured day already, 
fti.d still my motto is — I dare ! My worst 
poemy is Moimeme. I lie so miserably open to 
the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, 
Jght-arraed, weU-mounted banditti, under the 



Mauchline, 7th April, 1788. 
I AM indebted to you and Mi>s Nimmo for 
letting me know Miss Kenedy, Strange ! hovr 
apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judg- 
ments of one another ! Even I, who pique my- 
self on my skill in marking characters ; because 
I am too ptoud of my character as a man, to be 
dazzled in my judgment ybr glaring wealth ; and 
too proud of my situatiuu as a poor man to be 
biassed against squalid poverty ; I was unac- 
quaintea with Miss K.'svery uncommon worth 



1 am g^oing on a good deal progressive in mon ' get any thing to do. T wanted un but, 
prand hit, the sober science of life. I have j is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. 
lately made some sacrifices for which, were I 
riva voce with you to paint the situation and 
I «couQt the circumstances, you would applaud 



whicl 
I go 
this without any hanging on, or mortifying so- 
licitation ; it is immediate bread, and though 
poor in comparison of the last eighteen months 
of my esistence, 'tis luxury in comparison of ail 
my preceding life : besides, the commissioners 
are some of them my acquaintances, and all of 
them my firm friends. 



No date. 

Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, 
Biyself. I have broke measures with . . . 
and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. 
He replied in terms of chastisement, and pro- 
mised me upon his honour that I should have 
the account on Rlonday ; but this is Tuesday, 
and yet I have not heard a word from hiin. 
God have mercy on me ! a poor d-mned, in- 
cautious, duped, unfortunate fool ! The sport, 
the miserable victim, of rebellious pride ; hypo- 
chondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, 
and bedlam passions ! 

*' / tv'sh that I were dead, but I'm 7iu like 
to die /" I had lately " a hairbreadtli 'scape in 
th' imminent deadly breach" of love too. Thank 
my stars I got off heart-whole, " waur fleyd 
than huit." — Interruption. 

I have this moment got a hint .... 

I fear I am something 

like — undone — but 1 hope for the l)est. Come, 
Btubboni pride and unshrinking resolution ! ac- 
company me through this, to me, miserable 
world ! You must not desert me ! Your friend- 
Bhip I think I can count on, though I should 
date my letters from a marching regiment, 
fiarly in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a 
re'^sruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously 
ihoutrh, life at present presents me with but a 
melancholy path : but — my limb will &0'^« be 
■ouod, and 1 shall struggle on. 



To-morrow, 
Edinburgh. 



my 



Edinburgn, Sunday, 
'dear Madam, I leave 



I have altered all my plans of future life. A 
farm that 1 could liv,^ in, I could not find ; and 
indeed, after the necessary support my brother 
aod the rest of the family required, I could not 
venture on farming in that style suitable to my 
feelings. You will condemn me for the next 
■tep I have taken. I have entered into the ex- 
cise. I stay in the west about three weeks, and 
then return to Edinburgh for six weeks instruc- 
tions ; afterwards, for I gkt employ instantly, I 
go Oil a plait a Dieit, — et mon Roi, I have 
•iiosen this, my dear friend, after mature deli- 
beration. The question is not at what door of 
fortune's palace shall we enter in ; but what 
dioors does slie open to us ? I was not likely to 



NO. LXI. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

MY fiEAR MADAM, Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 

I JUST now have read yours. The poetic 
compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. 
They are neither of them so particular as tc 
point you out to the world at large ; and the 
circle of your acquaintances will allow all 1 
have said. Besides I have complimented you 
chiefly, almost solely, on your mental charms. 
Shall I be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. 
Personal attractions, Madam, you have much 
above par ; wit, understanding, and worth, you 
possess in the first class. This is a cursed flat 
way of telling you these truths, but let me hear 
no more of your sheepish timidity. I know 
the world a little. I know what they will say 
of my poems ; by second sight I suppose ; for 
I am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you 
may believe ine, my dear Madam, I would not 
run any risk of hurting you by an ill-judged 
compliment. I wish to show to the world, the 
odds between a poet's friends and those of sim- 
ple prosemen. More for your information both 
the pieces go in. One of them, " Where brav- 
ing all the winter's harms," is already set — 
the tune is Neil Cow's Lamentation for Aber- 
carney ; the other is to be set to an old High- 
land air in Daniel Dow's " collection of ancient 
Scots music ; the name is Ha a Chaillich ait 
mo Dheidh. My treacherous memory has for- 
got every circumstance about Les Incas, only 

I think you mentioned them as being in C 's 

possession. I shall ask him about it. 1 am 
afraid the song of " Somebody" will come to« 
late — as I shall, for certain, leave town in a 
week for Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, 
but there my hopes are slender. I leave my 
direction in town, so any thing, wherever I am, 
will reach me. 

I saw your's to ■' it is not too severe, 

nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, 
like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you 

in the Christmas days. Mr. — has given 

him the invitation, and he is determined to ac- 
cept of it. O selfishness ! he owns in his so- 
ber moments, that from his own volatility of 
incliuation, the circumstances in which he is si- 
tuated and his knowledge of his father's dispo- 
sition, — the whole -jffair is chimerical — yet h 



CORRESPCNDENCE. 



28. 



will gratify an idle penchant at the enormous, 
cruel expense of perhaps ruining the peace of 
the very woman for whom he professes the ge- 
nerous passion of love ! He is a gentleman in 
his mind and manners, tant pis f — He is a 
volatile school-hoy : the heir of a man's for- 
tune who well knows the value of two times 
two ! 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, be- 
fore they should make the amiable, the lovely 
■ the deiided object of their purse-proud 

contempt. 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 's 

recovery, btcanse I really thought all was over 
with her. There are days of pleasure yet a- 
Waiting her. 

' As I cam in by Gltnap 
I met with an aged woman ; 
She bade me cheat up my heart, 
For the best o' my days was coming." 



No. LXII. 
TO MISS M 



-N. 



Satutduy Noon, No. 2, St. Jameses Sqr. 
New- Town. Edinburgh. 

Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the 
■tony attitude of perplexed study tor fifteen vex- 
atious minutes, my head a>kew, bending over 
the intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to 
the very light of day poured around ; my pen- 
dulous goose- feather, loaded with ink, hanging 
over the future letter ;' all for the important 
purpose of writing a complimentary card to ac- 
company your trinket. 

Compliments is such a miserable Greenland 
expression ; lies at such a chilly polar distance 
from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I 
cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to ar^y 
person for whom 1 have the twentieth part of 
the esteem, every one must have for you who 
knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I can 
give myself the pleasure of calling for you only 
for a minute. Tuesday evening, sometime about 
•even, or after, I shall wait on you, for your 
farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box, I put into the hands 
of the- proper Connoisseur The broken glass, 
likewi^, went under review ; but deliberative 
wisdom thought it would too much endanger 
•he w' jle fabric. 

I am, doar Madam, 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm, 
Your very humble Servant. 



No. LXIII. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, Edinburgh 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, 
Nov. 23, 1787. 

I BEO, my dear Sir, you would not make 
any appointment to take us to Mr. Ainslie's to- 
night. On looking over my engagements, con- 
stitution, present state of my health, some little 
vexatious soul concerns, &c. I find I can't sup 
abroad to-night. 

I shall be in to-day till one o'clock if you have 
a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell you, 
that I find the idea of your friendship almost 
necessary to my existence. — You assume a pro- 
per length of face in my bitter hours of blue- 
devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest 
wishes at my good things. — I don't knoAv, upon 
the whole, if you are one of the fir-^t fellows in 
God's world, but you are so to me. I tell you 
this just now in the conviction that some in- 
equalities in my temper and manner may per- 
haps sometimes make you suspect that I am no4 
so warmly as I ought to be 

Your iiivuA. 



No. LXIV. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 

While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the 
side of a fiie in a little country inn, and drying 
my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger 
and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens ! 
say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits which 
the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o* Ayr, 
conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr. 
Ballantine Here it is — 

( The first sketch of '• Ye Banks and Braes c 
Bonnie Doon."") 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

No. LXV. 
FROM THE POET TO DR. MOORE, 

GIVING A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 

SIR, Mauchline, 2d Aug. 1787. 

For some months past I have been ramb- 
ling over the country ; but I am now confined 
with some lingering complaints, originating, a» 
1 take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirit! 
a little in this mii-erabie fog of ennui, I have ta 
ken a whim to give you a history of myself 
My oiuce has made some little noise in this coua 



2S2 



BURNS* WORKS. 



try; ynu have done me the honour to interest [ nnd boyish days, too, lowed much to an ol4 
youifeelf \ery warmly in my behulf; and I think woman who resided in the family, Temarkablt 
a faithful account of what character of a man I ! for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition, 
am, and how I came by that character, may per- ; She had, I suppose, the largest collection ir» the 
haps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give country of tales and songs concerning devils, 
you an honest nairative; though T know it will ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, 
oe often at my own expense; — for I assure you, spunkies. keljiies, elf-candles, dead -lights, wraiths, 
Sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character, ex '' apparitions, cantrips, giants, enchanted towers, 
cept in the trifling affair of tvisdnm, I some- dragon-*, and other trumpery. This cultivated 
times think I resemble, — I liave, I say, like him, the hitrnt seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an 
turned my eyis to behold niadness and felly 1 Ax\i\, effect on -iiy iiiiajjination, that to this hour, in 
like him too, frequently shaken hands with their my nocturnal rambles, 1 sometimes keep a sharp 
intoxicating friendship. . . After you look-out in «ii-pici()i's places ; and though no- 

have perused these pages, should you think them body can be more sv;eptical than I am in 8ueh 
trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell matters, yet it ctften t.ikts an effort of philosophy 
you, that the poor author wrote them under some to shake of these idle terrors. The earliest tom- 
twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a , position that I recollect tuking pleasure in, was 



suspici .ni that he was doing what he ought not 
to do ; a predicament he has raoie than ouee 
been in before. 

I have not the most distant pretensions to 
assume that character which the pye-coated 
guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. When 
at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in 
the Herald's Office ; and, looking through that 
granary of honours, I there found almost every 
oame in the kingdom ; but for uie, 

** My ancient but ignoble blood 

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the 
flood." 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me. 
My father was of the north of Scotland, the 
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis- 
fortunes on the world at large ; where, after many 
years wanderings and sojournings, he picked up 
a pretty large quantity of observation and expe 
rience, to which I am indebted for most of my 
little pretensions to wisdom. — I have met with 
few who understood men, their manners, and 
their ways, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungain- 
ly integrity, and headlong, ungovernable irasci- 
bility, are disqualifying circumstances ; conse- 
quently I was born a very poor man's son. For 
the first six or seven years of my life, my fa- 
ther was a gardener to a worthy gentleman of 
small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had 
he continued in that station, In.ust have march- 
ed off to be one of the little underlings about a 
farm-house; but it was his dearest wish and 
prayer to have it in his power to keep his chil- 
dren under his own eye till they could discern 
between good and evil ; so, with the assistance 
of his generous master, my father ventured on 
a small farm on his estate. At those years 
I was by no means a favourite with any body. 
I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, 
a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, 
and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, 
because I was then but a child. Though it cost 
the s(;hoolma8ter some thrashings, ] made an ex- 
aellent English scholar ; and by the time I was 
ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in sul>- 
•tautives, verbs, and participles. In my infant 



The Vision of Mirza, iind a hymn of Addison's, 
beginning. How are thy Servants blest, O 
Lord ! I particularly remember one half-stanza 
which was music to my boyish ears — 

** For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English 
Collection, one of my school-books. The two 
first books I ever read in private, and which 
gave me more pleasure than any two books I 
ever read since, were. The Life of Haiinibal, 
and The History of Sir William Wallace, 
Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that 
I used to strut in raptiues up and down after the 
recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself 
tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story o! 
Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my 
veins, which will boil along there till the flood- 
gates of life shut in eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was put- 
ting the country half-mad ; and I, ambitious ol 
shining in conversation parties on Sundays, be- 
tween sermons, at funerals, &c. used, a few years 
afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so inuch 
heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry 
of heresy against me, which has not ceased to 
this hour. 

My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage 
to me. My social disposition, when not check- 
ed by some modifications of spirited pride, was, 
like our chatechism-definition of infinitude, 
without bounds or limits. I formed several con- 
nections with other younkers who possessed su- 
perior advantages, the younyliitg actors, who 
were busy in the rehearsal uf parts in which they 
Were shortly to appear on the stage of life, 
where, alas ! 1 was destined to drudge behind 
the scenes. It is not commonly at this green 
age that our young gentry have a just sense of 
the immense distance between them and their 
ragged play-fellows. It takes a few dashes into 
the world, to give the young great man that pro- 
per, decent, unnoticing disregru-d for the poor, 
insignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and 
peasantry around him, who were perhaps iMjra 
in the swne village. My young superiors nevet 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



283 



^suited the cloutirly appearance of my plough- 
boy Ciircass, the two extremes of which were of- 
ten exposed to all the inclemencies of all the sea- 
sons. They would give me stray volumes of 
books among them, even then, I could pick up 
some observations ; and one, whose heart I am 
sure not even the Mutiny Begum scenes have 
tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting 
with these my ybung friends and benefactors, as 
they occasionally went off for the East or West 
Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; hut I 
was soon called to more serious evils. My fa- 
ther's generous master died ; the farm proved a 
ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the misfortune, 
we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for 
the picture I have drawn of one in my Tale of 
Tvoti Dogs. My father was advanced in life 
when he married ; I was the eldest of seven 
children ; and he, worn out by early hardships, 
was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was 
soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was 
a freedom in his lease in two years more ; and to 
weather these two years, we retrenched our ex- 
penses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexter- 
ous ploughman, for iny age ; and the next eldest 
to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive 
the plough very well, and help me to thrash the 
corn. A novel writer might perhaps hav-e view- 
ed these scenes with some satisfaction ; but so 
did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recol- 
lection of the s 1 factor's insolent threa- 
tening letters, which used to set us all in tears. 
This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a 
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- 
slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a lit- 
tle before which period I first committed the sin 
of Rhyme. You know our country custom of 
coupling a man and woman 'together as partners 
in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- 
tumn my partner was a bewitching creature a j with Pope's Work 
year younger than myself. My scarcity of Tull and Dickson 
English denies me the power of doing her jus- 
tice in that language ; but you know the Scot- 
tish idiom — she was a Ixmnie, sweet, sonsie lass. 
In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, 
initiated me in that delicious p ission, which, in 
spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, 
ard book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the 
irst of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
below ! How she caught the tout i.<ion. I can- 
not tell : y(m medical peoj^lc talk much of in- 
feccion from breathiii" the same air, the touch, 



could make verses like printed ones, composed 
by men who had Greek and Latin ; but mjr 
girl sung a song, which was said to be com- 
posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his 
father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I 
saw no reason why 1 might not rhyme as well aa 
he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and 
cast peats, his father living in the moor-laads, 
he had no more scholar-craft than myself. 

Thus with me began love and poetry ; 
which at times have been my only, and till 
within the last tvvelve»raonths. have been my 
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on 
till he reached the freedom in his lease, when 
he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles 
farther in the country. The nature- of the 
bargain he made was such as to throw a little 
ready money into his hands at the commence- 
ment of his lease ; otherwise the affair would 
have been impracticable. For four years we 
lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- 
mencing between him and his landlord, as to 
terms, after three years tossing and whirling 
in the vortex of litigation, my father was just 
saved from the horrors of a jail by a consump- 
tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly 
stepped in, and carried him away, to where the 
wicked cease from troubling, and where the 
weary are at rest. 

It is during the time that we lived on thia 
farm that my little story is most eventful. 1 
was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps 
the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish 
— no solitaire was less acquainted with the 
ways of the world. What I knew of ancient 
story was gathered from Salm(m's and Guth- 
rie's geographical grammars ; and the ideas I 
had formed of modern manners, of liteiatuie, 
and criticism, I got from the Spectatur. These 
some plays of Shakspearey 
on Agriculture, the Pan-- 
ttienn, Locke s Essay on the Human Un- 
derstanding, Stackhouse's History of the 
Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory^ 
Bayle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, 
Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, 
A Select Collection of English Songs, and 
Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole 
of my reading. The collection of songs was my 
vade mecum. I pored over them, driving my 
cart, or walking to labour, song by sung, verse 
by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or 



8cc. ; but I never expressly said I lovc-d her. - svjidime, from affectation and fustian. I am 
Indeed, I did not know myself wiiy I liked so I convinced I owe to this practice much of my cri- 
much to loiter behind with her. whcu return- i tic craft, such as it is. 
ing in the evening from our labours ; why the In my seventeenth year, to give my manner* 



like an iEolian harp ; and particularly why my 
pulse beat such a furious ratan when 1 looked 
lud fingered over her little hand to pick out the 
cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her 
other love- inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly; 
and it was her favourite reel, to which I at- 
tempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. 



I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I sipation which marked my °M>'><*eeding years 



My father had an unaccountable antipathy 
against these meetings ; and my going was, 
what to this moment I rtpent, in opposition to 
his wishes. My father, as I said before, wa» 
subject to strong passions ; from that instance 
of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike 
to me, which I believe was one cause of the di» 



284 



BURNS' WORKS. 



say dissipation, compaiati/ely with the strict- 
ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyte- 
rian country life ; for though the Will-o'-Wisp 
mettiors of thoughtless whim were almost the 
sole lights of my pat'h, yet early ingrained piety 
and virtue kept me for several years afterwards 
within the lice of innocence. The great mis- 
fortune of my life was to want an aim. I had 
felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they 
were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
round tht walls of his cave. I saw my father's 
situation entiiled on m? perpetual labour. The 
only two openings by which I could enter the 
temple of Fortune, was the gate of niggardly 
economy, or the path of 1. .tie chicaning bargain- 
making. The first is so contracted an aperture, 
I never could squeeze myself into it ; — the last 
I always hated — there was contamination in the 
very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view 
in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as 
well from native hilarity, as from a pride of ob- 
servation and remark ; a constitutional melan- 
choly or hypochondriasm that made me fly so- 
litude ; add to these incentives to social life, ray 
reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain 
wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, 
something like the rudiments of good sense ; 
and it will not seem surprising that I was ge- 
nerally a welcome guest where I visited, or any 
great wonder that, always where two or three 
met together, there was I among them. But, 
far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was 
un penchant a V adorable moitie du genre hu- 
main. My heart was completely tinder, and 
was eternally lighted up by some goddess or 
other ; and as in every other warfare in this 
woild my fortune was various, sometimes I was 
received with favour, and sometimes I was mor- 
tifiud with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, 
or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus 
I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I nevier 
cared farther for my labours than while I was 
in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the 
way after my own heart. A country lad sel- 
dom carries on a love adventure without an as- 
sisting confidant I possessed a curiosity, zeal, 
and intrepid dexterity, that recommended me as 
a proper sec^ond on these occasions ; and I dare 
say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the se- 
cret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, 
ss ever did statesmen in knowing the intrigues 
of half the courts of Europe. — The very goose- 
feather in uiy hand seems to know instinctively 
the well-worn path of my imagination, the fa- 
vourite theme of my song ; and is with difficul- 
ty restrained from giving you a couple of para- 
papLs on the love adventures of my compeeis, 
the humble inriates of the farm-house and cot- 
tage ; but the grave sons of science, ambition, 
or avarice, baptize these things by the name of 
follies. To the sons and daughters of labour 
ind poverty, they are matters of the nost seri- 
ous nature ; to them, the ardent hope, the sto- 
en interview, the tender farewell, are thegreat- 
(*t and must delicious parts of their enjoyments. 



Anotner circumstance in my ,1ft wnJil 
made some alteration in my mind and manners, 
was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a 
smuggling coast, a good distance f»-'m home, at 
a noted school, to learn mensuratiou, surveying, 
dialling, &c. in which I made a pretty good 
progress. But I made a greater progress in the 
knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade 
was at that time very successful, and it some- 
times happened to me to fall in with those who 
carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and 
roaring dissipation were till this time new to 
me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Hero 
though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix 
without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went 
on with a high hand with my geometry, till the 
sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a 
carnival in my bosom, when a charming ^/e^ie, 
who lived riext door to the school, overset my 
trigonometry, ind set me off at a tangent from 
the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled 
on with my sines, and cO'Sines, for a few days 
more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- 
ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met 
my angel, 

" Like Proserpine, gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower." 

It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid, 
I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the 
two last nights of my stay in the country, had 
sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this mo- 
dest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

I returned homg very considerably improv- 
ed. My reading was enlarged with the very 
important addition of Thomson's and Shen- 
stone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a 
new phasis ; and I engaged several of my 
school -fellows to keep up a literary correspon- 
dence with me. This improved me in compo- 
sition. I had met with a collection of letters 
by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and 1 pored 
over them most devoutly : I kept copies of anj 
of my own letters that pleased me ; and a com- 
parison between them and the composition ol 
most of my correspondents flattered my vanity. 
I carried this whim so far, that though I had 
not three farthings worth of business in the 
world, yet almost every post brought me as 
many letters as if I had been a broad plodding 
son of day-book and ledger. 

My life flowed on much in the same course 
till my twenty-third year. Vive I'amour, ei 
Vive la bagatelle, were my so.'e principles «^f ac- 
tion. The addition of two more authois to my 
library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and 
M'Kenzie — Tristram Shandy ami The Man 
of Feeliny — were my bosom favourites. Poesy 
was still a darling walk for ix v mind ; but it 
was only indulged in according to the humour 
of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or mur< 
pieces on hand ; I took up one oi other, as v 



CORRESPONDENCE 



2tto 



ra ted the momentary tone of the mind, an>l 
dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. 
My passions, when once lighted up, raged like 
so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and 
then the conning over my verses, like a spell, 
soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of 
those days are in print, except Winter, a Dirge, 
the eldest of my printed pieces ; The Death of 
Poor Mai^e, John Barleycorn, and Songs, 
first, seconi , and third. Song second was the 
ebullition of that passion which ended the fore- 
mentionetl school business. 

Rly twenty-third year was to me an import- 
ant era. Partly through whim, and partly 
that I wished to set about doing something in 
life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring 
town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was 
an unlucky affair. My ; and, to 

finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome 
carousal to the new year, the shop took fire, 
and 1)11 rii^ t-o ashes ; and I was left, like a true 
poet u ■ .v-.iith a sixpence. 

1 w.. .. >!i',vd to give up this scheme: the 
clouds in .,i!.4"..rtune wert gathering thick round 
my father's head ; and, what was worst of all, 
he was visibly far gone in a consumption , and, 
to crown my distresses, a belle fille, whom I 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet 
me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with 
peculiar circumstances of mortification. The 
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this 
infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy 
being increased to such a degree, that for three 
months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be 
envied by the hopeless wretches who have got 
their mittimus — Depart from me, ye cursed I 

From this adventure, I learned something 
of a town life ; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I form- 
ed with a young fellow, a very noble character, 
but a hajiless son of misfortune. He was the 
son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in 
the neighbourhood taking him under his pa- 
tronage, gave him a genteel education, with a 
view of bettering his situation in life. The 
patron dying just as he was ready to launch out 
into the world, the poor fellow in despair went 
to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill 
fortune, a little before I was acquainted with 
bim, he had been set ashore by in American 
privateer, on the wild coast of Conuaught, 
stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor 
fellow's story, without adding, that he is at this 
time master of a large West Indlaman belonging 
tt the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, ant every manly virtue. I loved 
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, 
and of course strove to imitate him. In some 
measure, I succeeded ; I had pride before, but 
be taught it to flow in proper channels. His 
knowledge of the world was vastly superior to 
mine, and I was all attention to ;arn. He was 
tke only man I ever saw who was a greater 
<bol than myself, where woman waa the presid- 



ing star ; but he spoke illicit love with the 
levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded 
with horror. Here his friendship did me a mis- 
chief : and the consequence was, that soon after 
I resumed the plough, I wrote the Poet's Wel- 
come.* My reading only increased, while in 
this town, by two stray volumes oi Pamela, and 
one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave 
me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
religious pieces that are in print, I had given 
up ; but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish 
Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre 
with emulating vigour. When my father died, 
his all went among the hell-hounds that prow 
in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shif* 
to collect a little money in the family amongst 
us, with whicn, to Keep jls together, my brother 
and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother 
wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well aa 
my social and amorous madness ; but, in good 
sense, and every sober qualification, be was far 
my superior. 

I entered on this farm with a full resolution, 
0)me, go to, I will be wise J I read farming 
books ; I calculated crops ; I attendf^d markets ; 
and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the 
world, and the flesh, I believe I should have 
been a wise man ; but the first year, from un- 
fortun itely buying bad seed, the second, from a 
late harvest, we lost half our crops. This over- 
set all my wisdom, and I returned, lik the dog 
to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, to 
her wallowing in the mire. 

I now began to be known in the neigh- 
bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of 
my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a 
burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two 
reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis per • 
sonoB in my Holy Fair. I had a notion my- 
self, that the piece had some merit ; but to pre- 
vent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend 
who was very fond of such things, and told him 
that I could not guess who was the author of 
it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With 
a certain description of the clergy, as well as 
laity, it met with a roar of applause. Holy 
Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, and 
alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they 
held several meetings to look over their spiritual 
artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed 
against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, 
my wanderings led me on another side, within 
point blank shot of their heaviest metal. This 
is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my 
printed poem, The Lament. This was a most 
melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to 
reflect on, and had very nearly given me t)ne or 
two of the principal qualifications for a plact 
among those who have lost the chart, and mis- 
taken the reckoning of Rationality. I gave up 
my part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it 
was only nominally mine ; and made what little 



• Rob the Rhymer't Welcomt to his Bastari^ 

Ckild. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



preparation w.is in my power for Jamaica. But, 
before leaving my native country for ever, I re- 
iolved to publish my poems. I weighed my 
productions as impartially as was in my power : 
I thought they had merit ; and it was a deli- 
cious idea that I should be called a clever fel- 
low, even though it should never reach my 
«ars — a poor nt;gro-driver,— or perhaps a vic- 
,im to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the 
world of spirits ! I can truly say, that pauvre 
inconnu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as 
high an idea of myself and of my works as I 
have at this moment, when the public has de- 
cided in their favour. It ever was my opini- 
on, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a 
rational and religious point of view, of which 
we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to 
their ignorance of themselves.— To know my- 
self, had been all along ray constant study. I 
weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with 
others ; I watched every means of information, 
to see how much ground I occupied aa a man 
and as a poet : I studied assiduously nature's 
desigrv iu my formation — where the lights and 
shades in my character were intended. I was 
pretty confident my poems would meet with 
some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of 
the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, 
and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me 
forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, 
of which I had got subscriptions for about three 
hundred and fifty. — My vanity was highly gra- 
tified by the reception I met with from the 
public ; and besides I pocketed, all expenses 
deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum 
came very seasonably, as I was thinking of in- 
denting myself, for want of money to procure 
my passage. As soon as I was master eC nine 
guineiis, the price of wafting me to the torrid 
tone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship 
that was to sail from the Clyde ; for 

'♦ Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 

I had been for some dayn skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; 
as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the 
meici'ess pack of the law at my heels. I had 
taken the last farewell of my few friends ; ray 
'''hest was on the road to Greenock ; I had com- 
posed the last song I should ever measure in 
Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering fast, 
when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, to a friend 
of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening 
new prospects to my poetic ambition. The 
Doctor belonged to a set of critics, for whose 
applause I had not dared to hope. His opi- 
nion that I would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so 
much, that away 1 posted for that city, with- 
out a »ngle acquaintance, or a single letter of 
Introduction. The baneful star, that had so 
ntng shed its blasting influence in my zenith, 
for once made a revolution to the nadir ; and 
« kind Providence placed tne under the patron- 



age of one of the noblest of mew, the Earl « 
Glencairn. Oublie mot. Grand Oleu, si jam 
maisje toublie ! 

I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I 
was in a new world ; I mingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
I was all attention to catch the characters and 
the manners living as they rise. Whether I 
have profited, time will show. 



My most respectful compliments to Miss W 
Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot aa 
swer at present, as my presence is requisite is 
Sdinburgh, and I set out to-morrow.* 



No. LXVI. 
FROM GILBERT BURNS. 

A RUKNINO COMMENTARY ON THE FORE- 
QOIKQ. 

The farm was upwards of seventy acres f 
(between eighty and ninety English statute 
measure), th** rent of which was to be forty 
pounds annually for the first six years, and af- 
terwards forty-five poumls. My father endea- 
voured to sell his le.ist'h til property, for the 
purpose of stocking tliis farm, hut at that time 
was unable, and Mr. Feijruson lent him & hun- 
dred pounds for that pin-jjose. He reinoveu to 
his new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766. It was, 
I think, not above two years after this, that 
Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part of 
the country ; and there being no school near us, 
and our little services being useful on the farm, 
my father undertook to teach us arithmetic in 
the winter evenings, by candle-light; and in this 
way my two eldest sisters got all the education 
they recsived. I remember a circumstance that 
happened at this time, which, though trifling 
in itself, is fresh in my memory, and may serve 
to illustrate the early character of my brother. 
Murdoch came to spend a night with us, and to 
take his leave when he was about to go into 
Carrick. He brought us, as a present and me. 
morial of him, a small compendium of English 
Grammar, and the tragedy of I'itus Androni' 
cus : and by way of passing the evening, he be. 
gan to read the play aloud. We were all atten- 
tion for some time, till presently the whole par • 
ty was dissolved in tears. A female in the play 
(I have but a confused remembrance of it) had 



• There are various copies of thi« letter, in the au< 
thor'f handwriting; and one of these, evidently cor- 
rected, i« in the book in which he had copied several 
of his letters. This has been used for the press, with 
some omissions, and one slight alteration suggested bv 
Gilbert Burns. 

t Letter of Gilbert Bunw to Mrs. Dunlop. The 
name of tixu f«rm is Mount Oiiphant, in Ayr parish. 



COBBESPONDENCE. 



th% 



Iber liands citopt off, and her tongue cut out, 
tnd then was insultingly desired to call for wa- 
ter to wash her hands. At this, in an agony of 
iistress, we with one voice desired he would 
read no more. My father observed, that if we 
would not hear it out, it would be needless to 
leave the play with us. Robert replied, that if 
it was left he would burn it. My father was 
going to chide him for this ungratefal return to 
his tutor's kindness; but Murdoch interfered, de- 
claring that he liked to see so much sensibility ; 
and he left The School for Love, a comedy 
(translated, I think, from the French), in its 
place. 

Nothing could he more retired than our ge- 
neral manner of living at Mount Oliphant; 
we rarely saw any body but the members of 
our own family. There were no boys of our 
own age) or near it, in the neighbourhood. 
Indeed the greatest part of the land in the 
vicinity was at that time possessed by shop- 
keepers, and people of that stamp, who had 
retiwd from business, or who kept their farm 
in the country, at the same time that they fol- 
lowed business in town. My father was for 
some time almost the only companion we had. 
He converse<l familiarly on all subjects with us, 
as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, 
while we accompanied him in the labours of the 
farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects 
as might tend to increase our knowledge, or 
confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed 
Salmon s Geographical Grammar for us, and 
endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
situation and history of the different countries 
in the world ; while, from a book-society in 
Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Der- 
ham^s Physico and Astro - Theology, and 
Ray's Wisdom of God in the Creation, to 
give us some idea of astronomy and natural his- 
tory. Robert read all these books with an avi- 
dity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My 
father had been a subscriber to Stackhouses 
History of the Bible, then lately published by 
James Meuros in Kilmarnock : from this 
Robert collected a competent knowledge of an- 
cient history ; for no book was so voluminous 
as to slacken his industry, or so antiquitated as 
to damp his researches. A brother of my mo- 
tfcer, who had lived with us some time, and 
had learnt some arithmetic by our winter even- 
ing's candle, went into a bookseller's shop in 
Ayr, to purchase The Ready Reckoner, or 
Tradesman's sure Guide, and a book to teach 
him to write letters. Luckily, in place of The 
Complete Letter- Writer, he got, by mistake, 
% small collection of letters Sy the most emi- 
oent writers, with a few sensible directions for 
attaining an easy epistolary style. This book 
was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It 
inspired him with a strong desire to excel in 
letter-writing, while it furnished him with mo- 
dels by some of the first writers in our Ian- 
|«ige. 

My brother was about thirteen or fourteen. 



when my father, regretting that we wiote S9 
ill, sent us we<;k about, during a summer quar- 
ter, to the parish schoo of Dalrymple, whiclv 
though between two and three miles distant, 
was the nearest to us, that wc might have an 
opportunity of remedying this defect. About 
this time a bookish acquaintance (»f my father's 
procured us a reading of two volumes of Rich- 
ardson's Pamela, which wafs the first novel we 
read, and the only part of Richardson's works 
my brother was acquainted with till towards 
the period of his commencing author. Till that 
time too he remained unacquainted with Field- 
ing, with Smollet, (tw;» volumes of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, and two volumes of Peregrim 
Pickle excepted), with Hume, with Robertson, 
and almost all our authors of eminence of the 
later times. I recollect indeed my father bor- 
rowed a volume of English history from Mr. 
Hamilton of Bourtree-hill's gardener. It treat- 
ed of the reign of James the First, and his un- 
fortunate son Charles, but I do not know who 
was the author ; all that I remember of it is 
something of Charles's conversation with his 
children. About this time Murdoch, our for- 
mer teacher, after having been in diiferent 
places in the country, and having taught a 
school some time in Dumfries, came to be the 
established teacher of the English language in 
Ayr, a circumstance of considerable consequence 
to us. The remembrance of my father's former 
friendship, and his attachment to my brother, 
made him do every thing in his power for our 
improvement. He sent us Pope's works, and 
some other poetry, the first that we had an op- 
portunity of reading, excepting what is con 
taiued in The English Collection, and in the 
volume of The Edinburgh Magazint i'or 1772 ; 
excepting also th/se excellent new songs that 
are liawked about the country in baskets, or 
ex)mseii on stalls in the streets. 

The ^ul:luu•r after we had been at Dalrym 
pie school, my father sent Robeit to Ayr, to 
revise his English grammar, with his former 
tcicher. He had been there only one week, 
when he was obliged to return, to assist at the 
harvest. When the harvest was over, he went 
l)ack tu school, where he remained two vvei^ks ; 
and this completes the account of his school 
education, excepting one summer quarter, some 
time afterwards, that he attended the parish 
school of Kirk-Oswald (where he lived with a 
brother of my mother's) to learn surveying. 

During the two last weeks that he was with 
Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning 
French, and he conimunicated the instructions 
he received to my brother, who, when he return- 
ed, brought home with him a French dii-tionaiv 
and grammar, and the Adventures if Te/cwwi- 
chus in the original. In a little while, by the 
assistance of these books, he had acquiied such a 
knowledge of the language, as to read and un- 
derstand any French author in prose. Thil 
was consioered as a sort of prodi^> y, and, through 
the medium of Murdoch, procured him the ac 



;88 



BURNS WORKS. 



:juaintance of several lads in Ayr, who were at 
that time gabbling French, and the notice of 
some families, particularly that of Dr. Malcolm, 
where a knowledge of French was a recommen- 
dation. 

Observing the facility with which he had 
acquired the French language, Mr. Robinson, 
the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr. 
Murdoch's particular friend, having himself ac- 
quired a considerable knowledge of the Latin 
language by his own industry, witliout ever ha- 
ving learned it at school, advised Robert to make 
the same attempt, promising him every assist- 
ance in his power. Agreeably to this advice, he 
purchased The Rudiments of the Latin Tongue, 
but finding this study dry and uninteresting, it 
was quickly laid aside. He frequently returned 
to his Rudiments on any little chagrin or dis- 
appointment, particularly in his love affairs; 
but the Latin seldom predominated more than a 
day or two at a time, or a week at most. Ob- 
serving himself the ridicule that would attach to 
this sort of conduct if it wvw known, he made 
two or three humorous stanzas on the subject, 
which I cannot now recollect, but they all ended, 

" So I'll to my Latin again.* 

Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal 
means of my brother's improvement. Worthy 
man ! though foreign to my present purpose, I 
cannot take leave of him without tracing his 
future history. He continued for some years a 
respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one 
evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, 
he happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully 
of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had 
not paid him that attention to which he thought 
hi'mself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have 
spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to give 
up his appointment. He went to London, where 
he still lives, a private teacher of French. He 
has been a considerable time married, and keeps 
a shop of stationery wares. 

The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician at 
Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, 
and was one of the established teachers in Ayr 
when my father settled in the neighbourhood. 
He early recognised my father as a fellow na- 
tive of the north of Scotland, and a certain de- 
ree of intimacy subsisted between them during 
Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, bis widow 
who is a very genteel woman, and of great 
worth, delighted in doing what she thought her 
husband would have wished to have done, and 
assiduously kept up her attentions to all his ac- 
quaintance. She kept alive the intimacy with 
our family, by frequently inviting my father and 
mother to her house on Sundays, wher? she met 
them at churciu. 

When she came to know my brother's passion 
for books, she kindly offered us the use of her 
kusband'e library, and from her we got the 
Spectator, Pope's Translation of Homer, and 
teveral other books that were of use te us. 



Mount Oliphant, the farm my fatTier possessad 
in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very poorest 
soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A 
stronger proof of this I cannot give, than that, 
notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in the 
value of lands in Scotland, it was, after a con- 
siderable sum laid out in improving it by the 
proprietor, let, a few years ago, five poumls per 
annum lower than the rent paid for it by my 
father thirty years ago. My father, in conse- 
quence of this, soon came into difficulties, which 
were increased by the loss of several of his cattle 
by accidents and disease. — To the buffetings of 
misfortune we could only oppose hard labour ani 
the most rigid economy. We lived very spa- 
ringly. For several years butcher's meat was a 
stranger in the house, while all the members of 
the family exerted themselves to the utmost of 
their strength, and rather beyond it, in the la- 
bours of the farm. My brother, at the age of 
thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, 
and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
farm, for we had no hired servant, male or fe- 
male. The anguish of mind we felt at our ten- 
der years, under these straits and difficulties, 
was very great. To think of our father grow- 
ing old, (for he was now above fifty), brokea 
down with the long continued fatigues of his 
life, with a wife and five other children, and in 
a declining state of circumstances, these reflec- 
tions produced in my brother's mind and mine 
sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt not 
but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- 
riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause 
of that depression of spirits with which Robert 
was so often afflicted through his whole li/e af- 
terwards. At this time he was almost con- 
stantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull 
headache, which, at a future period of his life, 
was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, 
and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in 
his bed, in the night-time. 

By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had 
a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at 
the end of every sixth year. He attempted to 
fix himself in a better farm at the end of the 
first six years, but failing in that attempt, he 
continued where he was for six yeartj more. He 
then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at 
the lent of twenty shillings an acre, in the pa- 
rish of Tarbolton, of Mr. , then 

a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant 
in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at 
Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only .seven 
years. No writing had ever been made out of 
the conditions of the lease , a misunderstanding 
took place respecting them ; the subjects in dis- 
pute were submitted to arbitration, and the de- 
cision involved my father's affairs in ruin. He 
lived to know of this .lecision, but not to see any 
execution in consequence of it. He died on the 
13th of February, 1784. 

The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish 
(extending from the seventewith to t'he twei.ty. 
fourth of my brother's age), were not mai«id 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



2h& 



br mucn iileriry improvement ; but during^ 
Inis time the foundation was laid of certain ha- 
bits in my brother's character, which afterwards 
became but too prominent, and which malice 
and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. 
Tliough, when young, he was bashful and awk- 
ward in his intercourse with women, yet when 
he approached manhood, his attachment to their 
society became very strong, and he was con- 
stantly t le victim of some fair enslaver. The 
symptoms of his passion were often such as 
nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. 
I never indeed knew that hn fainted, sunk, and 
died away ; but the agitations of his mind and 
body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever 
knew in real life. He had always a particular 
jealousy of people who were richer than liim- 
self, or who had more consequence in life. His 
love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this 
description. When he selected any one, out of 
the sovereignty of his good p^asure, to whom 
he should piy his particular attention, she was 
instantly invested with a sufficient stock of 
charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own 
imagination ; and there was often a great dis- 
simHitiKJe l)etween his fair captivator, as she 
appeared to others, and as she seemed when in- 
vested with the attributes he gave her. One 
generally reigned paramount in his affections ; 
but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward 
Madame de L at the remise door, while 

the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so 
Robert was frequently encountering other at- 
tractions, which formed so many under plots in 
the drama of his love. As these connections 
were governed by the strictest rules of virtue 
ind modesty (from which he never deviated till 
he reached his 23d year), he became anxious to 
be in a situation to marry. This was not likely 
to be soon the case while he remained a farmer, 
as the stocking of a farm required a sum of 
money he had no probability of being master of 
for a great while. He began, therefore, to think 
of trying some other line >)f life. He and I had 
fcr seveial years taken land of my father for the 
purpose of raising flax on our own account. In 
the course of selling it, Robert began to think 
of turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable to 
his grand view of settling in life, and as sub- 
•ervient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
wrought at the business of a flax-dreaser in 
Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
period, as neither agreeing with his health nor 
inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some 
acquaintance of a freei manner of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, whose society 
prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid 
virtue which had hitherto restrained him. To- 
wards the end of the period under review (in 
his 24th year j, and soon after his father's death, 
he w.is furnished with the subject of his epistle 
to John Rankin. During this period also he 
became a freemason, which was his first intro- 
duction to the life of a boon companion. Yet, 
ootwithatanding these circumstances, and the 



1 praise he has bestowed n Scotch drink (which 
I seems to have misled h.s historians), 1 do not 
I recollect, during these seven y.'ars, nor till to- 
; wards the end of his commencing author (whea 
, his gi owing celebrity occasioned his being often 
I in company), to have ever seen him intoxicated, 
I nor was he at all given to drinking. A stronger 
proof of the general sobriety of his conduct nee<i 
I not be required than what I am about to give. 
I Daring the whole of the time we lived in the 
farm of Lochlea with my father, he allowed my 
brother and me such wages for our labour as he 
gave to other labourers, as a part of which, 
every article of our clothing manufactured in 
the family was regularly accounted for. When 
my father's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert 
and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 
1 18 acres, at the rent of i£90 per annum (the 
farm on which I live at present) from Mr. Ga- 
vin Hamilton, as an asylum fur the family in 
case of the worst. It was stocked by the pro- 
perty and individual savings of the whole family, 
and was a joint concern among us. Every mem- 
ber of the family was allowed ordinary wages 
for the labour he performed on the farm. Mv 
brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds 
per annum each. And during the whole time 
this family concern lasted, which was four years, 
as well as during the preceding period at Loch- 
lea, his expenses never in one year exceeded his 
slender income. As I was intrusted with the 
keeping of the family accounts, it is not possi- 
ble that there can be any fallacy in this state- 
ment in my brother's favour. His temperance 
and frugality were every thing that could be 
wished. 

The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four 
years that we were on the farm were very frosty, 
and the spring was very late. Our crops in 
I consequence were very unprofitable ; and, not- 
j withstanding our utmost diligence and economyj 
I we found ourselves obliged to give ujj our bar- 
gain, with the loss of a tonsideralile part of osr 
original stock. It was during these four years 
! that Robert forme<i his connection with Joan 
; Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. This connec- 
I tion co'/ld no lam/er be concealed, about the 
: time we came to a final determination to quit 
I the farm. Robert durst not engage with a 
family in his poor unsettled state, but was an- 
xious to shield his partner by every means in 
his {X)vver from the consequences of their im- 
! prudence. It was agreed therefore between 
them, that they should make a legal acknow- 
j ledgment of an irregular and private marriage ; 
that he should go to Jamaica, to pnsA his f'er- 
ti/tie ; and that she should remain with hM 
father till it might please Providence to put th» 
means of supporting a family in his power. 

Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her fa- 
ther's. The intimation of a private mari-i<ig« 
was the first suggestion he received of her n.-a 
situation. He was in the greatest distress, and 
fainted away. The marriage did nut aopea/ tu 



230 



BURNS' WORKS. 



toim to make the matter any better. A hus- 
band in Jamaica appeared to him and to his wife 
little better than none, and an eftectual bar to 
any other prospects of a settlement in life that 
their daughter might have. They therefore ex- 
pressed a wish to her, that the written papers 
which respect'jd the marriage should he cancel- 
led, and thus the marriage rendered void. In 
her melancholy state she felt the deepest remorse 
at having brought such heavy affliction on pa- 
rents that loved her so tenderlx , and submitted 
to their entreaties. Their wish was mentioned 
to Robert. He felt the deepest anguish of 
mind. He offered to stay at home ancl provide 
for his wife and family in the best manner *-hat 
his daily labours could provide for them ; that 
being the only means in his pi'wer. Even this 
offer they did not approve of; for, humble as 
Miss Armour's station was, and great though 
her imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes 
of her partial parents, might look to a better 
connexion than that with my friendless and un- 
happy brother, at that time without house or 
hiding-place. Robert at length consented to 
their wishes ; but his feelings on this occasion 
were of the most distracting nature ; and the 
impression of sorrow was not effaced, till by a 
regular marriage they were indissolubly united. 
In the state of mind which this separation pro- 
duced, he wished to leave the country as soon 
as possible, and agreed with Dr. Douglas to go 
out to Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as I 
believe it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate. 
As he had not sufficient money to pay his pas- 
sage, and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas was 
to piocure a passage for him was not expected 
to sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him 
to publish his poems in the meantime by sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a little mo- 
ney to provide him more liberally in necessaries 
for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advice, sub- 
scription bills were printed immediately, and 
the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, 
his preparations going on at the same time for 
his voyage. The reception, however, which 
his poems met with in the world, and the friends 
they procured him, made him change his reso- 
lution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised 
to go to Edinburgh to publish a second edition. 
On his return, in happier circumstances, he re- 
newed his connexion with Mrs. Burns, and ren- 
dered it permanent by a union for life. 

Thus, Madam, have 1 endeavoured to give 
you a simple narrative of the leading circum- 
stances in my brother's early life. The remain- 
ing part he spent in Edinburgh or in Dumfries- 
shire, and its incidents are as well known to 
you as to me. Hie genius having procured him 
your patronage and friendship, this gave rise to 
the correspondence between you, in which, I 
believe, his sentiments were delivered with the 
most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, 
tnd which only terminated with the last days of 
^« liie. 



No. Lxvn. 

FROM MR. MURDOCH 

TO 

DR MOORE, 

AS TO THK poet's EARLY TUITIOM. 
SIR, 

I WAS lately favoured with a letter from oni 
worthy friend, the Rev. William Adair, in which 
he requested me to communicate to you what 
ever particulars I could recoilect jroncerning 
Robert Burns, the Ayrshire p(»et. My business 
being at present multifarious and harassing, my 
attention is consequently so much divided, and I 
am so little in the habit of expressing my thoughts 
on paper, that at this distance of time I can give 
but a very imperfect sketch of the early part of 
the life of that extraordinary genius with which 
alone I am acquainted. 

William Burnes, the father of the poet, was 
born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred a 
gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire ten 
or twelve years before I knew him, and had 
been in the service of Mr. Crawford of Doon- 
side. He was afterwards employed as a gar- 
dener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of 
Doonholm, in the parish of Alloway, which it 
now united with that of Ayr. In this parish^ 
on the road side, a Scotch mile and a half from 
the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the 
bridge of Doon, William Burnes took a piece 
of land, consisting ot about seven acres, part of 
which he laid out in garden ground, and part 
of which he kept to graze a <:ow, &c. still con- 
tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson. 
Upon this little farm was erected a humble 
dwelling, of which William Burnes was the ar- 
chitect. It was, with the exception of a little 
straw, liteially a tabernacle of clay. In this 
mean cottage, of which I myself was at times 
an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a 
larger portion of content than in any palace in 
Europe. The Cotters Saturday Niyhty will 
give some idea of the temper and manners that 
prevailed there. 

In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr. 
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school 
where I was improving in writing under my 
pood friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would 
come and speak to him at a certain inn, and 
bring my writing jook with me. This waf 
immediately complied with. Having examineu 
my writing, he was pleased with it — (you wiU 
readily allow he was not difficult ), and t<»ld me 
that he had received very satisfactory informa- 
tion of Mr. Tennant, the master of the Eng- 
lish school, concerning my improvement in 
English, and in his method of teaching. la 
the month of May following, I was engaged by 
Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, to teach, 
and accordingly began to teach the little school 
D \lloway, which was situated a few yardU 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



291 



from the argillaceous fabric above mentioned. 
My five employers undertook to board me by 
turns, and to make up a certain salary, at the 
end of the year, provided my quarterly pay- 
ments from the different pupils did not amount 
to that Slim. 

Mv pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
six and seven yeai-s of age ; his preceptor about 
eighteen. Robert and his younger brother Gil- 
bert, had been grounded a little in English be- 
fore they were put under my care. They both 
wade a rapid progress in reading, and a tolerable 
progress in writing. In reading, dividing words 
into syllables by rule, spelling without book, 
parsing sentences, &c., Robert and Gilbert were 
generally at the upper end of the class, even 
when ranged with boys by far their seniors. 
The books most commonly used in the school 
were, the Spelling Book, the New Testament, 
the Bihle, Mason's Collection of Prose and 
Verse, and Fisher's English Grammar, They 
com flitted to memory the 'iymn«, and other 
poems of that collection, with uncommon facili- 
ty. This facility was partly owing to the me- 
thod pursued by their father and me in instruct- 
ing them, which was, to make them thoroughly 
acquainted with the meaning of every word in 
each sentence that was to be committed to me- 
mory. By the bye, this may be easier done, and 
at an earlier period, than is generally thought. 
As soon as they were capable of it, I taught them 
to turn verse into its natural prose order ; some- 
times to substitute synonymous expressions for 
poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses. 
These, you know, are the means of knowing that 
the pupil understand-, his author. These are 
excellent helps to the arrangement of words in 
Benteoces, as well as to a variety of expression. 

Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a 
more lively imagination, and to be more of the 
wit, than Robert. I attempred to teach them a 
little chtMch mnsic. Here they were left far be- 
hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, 
in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice 
untuuable. It was long before I could get them 
to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's 
countenance was generally grave, and expressive 
of aseriou>>, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. 
Gilbert's face said. Mirth, with thee I mean to 
live ; and certainly, if any person who knew the 
two boys, had been asked which of them was 
the most likely to court the muses, he would 
surely never have guessed that Robert had a 
propensity of that kind. 

In the year 1767, Mr. Burnes quitted his 
mud edifice, and took possession of a farm 
(Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while 
in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm 
being at a considerable distance from the school, 
the boyti could not attend regularly ; and some 
changes taking place among the other sup- 
porters ')f the school, I left it, having fonti.iued 
to conduct It for nearly ^wo years and a half. 

In the year 1772, I was appointed (being one 
•f fire candidates who were examined) to teach 



the English school at Ayr ; and in 1773, Robert 
Burns came to board and hdge with me, for the 
purpose of revising English grammar, he. that 
he might be better qualified to instruct hw bro- 
thers and sisters at home. He was now with 
me day and night, in school, at meals, and in all 
my walks. At the end of one week, I told him, 
that, as he was now i)retty much master of the 
parts of speech, &c., I should like to teach him 
something of French pronunciation, that when 
he should meet with the name of a French town, 
ship, officer, or t..^e like, in the newspapers, he 
might be able to pronounce it something like a 
French word. Robert was glad to hear this pro- 
posal, and immediately we attacked the French 
with great courage. 

Now there was little else to be heard but the 
declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs, 
&c. When walking together, and even at meals, 
I was constantly telling him the name^ of differ- 
ent objects, as they presented themselves, in 
French ; s(. that .le wa- hourl/ laying in a stocit 
of words, and sometimes little phrases. In short, 
he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teach- 
ing, that it was difficult to say which of the two 
was most zealous in the business ; and about the 
end of the second week of our study of the 
French, we began to read a little of the Adven- 
tures of Telemnchus, in Feweloa's own words. 

But now the plains of Mount Oliphant begao 
to whiten, and Robert was suniuionod to relin- 
quish the pleasing scenes that surrounded the 
grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to 
seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields of 
Ceres — and so he did ; fir although but about 
fifteen, I was told that he perfonried the work 
of a man. 

Thus w.as I deprived of my very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable companion, at the 
j end of three week*, one of which was spent en- 
' tirely in the study of English, and the other two 
I chiefly in that of French. I did not, however, 
; lose sight of him ; but was a frequent visita^nt 
j at his father's house, when I had my half-hoU' 
j day, and very often went accompanied with one 
I or two persons more intelligent than myself, that 
I good Wdliam Burnes might enjoy a mental feast. 
I — Then the labouring oar was shifted to some 
; other hand. The father and the son sat dpwn 
with us, when we enjoyed a conversation, where- 
; in solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a mo- 
derate seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely 
blended ^s to render it palatable to all parties. 
Robert had a hundred questions to ask me about 
the French, &c. ; and the father who had al- 
ways rational information in view, had still 
some question to propose to my more learned 
friends, upon moral or natural philosophy, or 
some such interesting subject. Mrs. Burnet 
too was of the party as much as possible ; 

" But stir, the Louse affairs would draw her then'^a 
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear 
Devour up theij* rjscourse."— — 



99St 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Kcd pai ticukriy that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to him 
with a more marked attentioi than to any body else. 
When under the necessity of being absent while 
he was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real 
loss, that she had missed what the good man 
had said. This worthy wotnan, Agnes Brown, 
had the most thorough esteem for her husband 
if any woman I ever knew. I can by no means 
wonder that she highly esteemed him ; for I 
mys<'lf have always considered William Burnes 
as by far the best of the human race that ever 
had the pleasure of being acquainted with — 
and many a worthy character I have known. 
1 can cheerfully join with Robert in the last line 
of his epitaph ( borrowed from Goldsmith ), 

* And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 

He was an excellent husband, if I may judge 
from his assiduous attention to the ease and 
comfort of his worthy partner, and from her 



and perpetuate the memory of those who excel 
in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what ar« 
called heroic actions : then would the mausole* 
um of the friend of my youth overtop and sur- 
pass most of the monuments I see in Westmin- 
ster Abbey. 

Although I cannot do justice to the charac- 
ter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, 
from these few particulars, what kind of persoa 
had the principal hand in the education of our 
poet. He spoKe the English language with 
more propriety (both with respect to diction 
and pronunciation), than any man I ever knew, 
with no greater advantages. This had a very 
good effect on the boys, who began to talk, and 
reason like men, much sooner than their neigh- 
bours I do not recollect any of their cotempo- 
raries, at my little seminary, who afterwards 
made any great Bgure as literary characters, ex- 
cept Dr. Tenant, who was chaplain to Colonel 
Fullarton's regiment, and who is now in the 
East Indies. He is a man of genius and learn- 
affectionate behaviour to him, as well as her'ing; yet affab'e, and free irora pedantry, 
unwearied attention to tr<e duties of a mother, i Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he 
He was a tender and affectionate father ; he ' had overrated Mount Oliphant, and that he 
took pleasure in leading his children in the path could not rear his numerous family upon it.— 
of virtue; not in driving them, as some parents After lieing there some years, he removed to 
do, to the performance of duties to whicii they Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, 1 
themselves are averse. He took care to find believe, Robert wrote most of his poems, 
fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he But here. Sir, you will permit me to pause, 
did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of I cun tell you hut little mure relative to our 
reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was poet. I shall, however, in my next, send you 
felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe a copy of one of his letters to me, about the 



with the taws, even on the skirt of the coat, 
gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamenta- 
tion, and brought forth a flood of tears. 

He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good-will of those that were labourers under 
him. I think I never «a\v him angry but 
twice . the one time it wa* with the foreman of 
the band, for not reaping the field as he was de- 
sired ; and the other time, it was with an old 
man, for using smutty inuendoes and double en- 
tendres. Were every foul-mouthed old man to 
receive a seasonable check in this vvay, it would 
be to the advantage of the rising generation. 
As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, 
he was equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, 
paltry spirit, that induces some people to keep 
booing and booing in the presence of a great 
man. He always treated superiors with a be- 
coming respect ; but he nev.'rgave the smallest 
encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But 
I must not pretend to give you a description of 
all the manly qualities, the rational and Chris- 
tian virtues of the venerable William Burnes. 
Time would fail me- I shall only add, that he 
carefully practised every known duty, and avoid- 
sd every thing that was criminal 



year 
laid. 



his letters to 
783. I received one since, but it i» mis- 
Please remember nie, in the best man- 
ner, to niy worthy friend Mr. Adair, when yen 
see him or write to him. 

Hart Street, Bloomsbury Square^ 
London, Feb. 22, 1799. 



apostle's words. Herein did he exercise him- 
telf, in living a life void of offence towards 
God and towards men. O for a world of men 
of such dispositions ! We should then have no 
wars. I have often wished, for the good of 
mankind, that it were as customary to honour 



No. LXVIII. 
FROM PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART 

TO 

DR. MOORE, 

CONTAINING HIS SKETCHES OF THE POET. 

The first time I saw Robert Bums was on 
the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at ray 
house in Ayrshire, together with our common 
friend Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauch- 
line, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure ot 
his acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the 
or, in the I date particularly, by some verses which Burns 



wrote after he returned home, and in which 
day of our meeting is recorded. My excellent 
and much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord 
Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the. same 
day, and by the kindness and frankness of his 
manners, left an impression on the mind of the 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



293 



90e , whic nt fer was effaced. The verses I 
allude lo aie among the most imperfect of his 
pipc«sj , hut a few stanzas may perhaps be an 
object of curiosity to you, both on ac<ii>unt of 
the character to which they relate, and of the 
light which they throw on the situation and 
feelings of the writer, before his name was 
known to the publ'c. * 

I cannot positively say, at this distance of 
time, whether, at the period of our first ac- 
quaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his poems 
had been just published, or was yet in the press. 
I suspect that the latter was the case, as I have 
•till in my possession copies in his own hand- 
writing, 01 some of his favourite performances ; 
particularly of his verses " on turning up a 
Mouse with his plough ;" — " on the Mountain 
Daisy ;" and " the Lament." On my return to 
Edinburgh, T showed the volume, and mention- 
ed what I knew of the author's history, to se- 
veral of my friends, and among othei s, to Mr. 
Henry Mackenzie, who fiist recommended him 
to public notice in the 97th number of The 
ZtOUHoer. 

At this time Burns's prospects in life were so 
extremely gloomy, that he had seriously formed 
A plan of going out to Jamaica in a very humble 
situation, not, however, without lamenting, that 
his want of patronage should force him to think 
of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when 
his ambition aimed at no higher an object than 
the station of an exciseman or ganger in his own 
country. 

His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen- 
dent ; sttongly expressive of conscious genius 
and worth ; but without any thing that indica- 
ted forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took 
his share in conversation, but not more than 
belonged to him ; and listened with appaient 
attention and deference, on subjects where his 
want of education deprived him of rtie means of 
information. If there had been a little more of 
gentleness ;:nd accommodation in his temper, he 
would, I think, have been still more interest- 
ing ; but he had been accustomed to give law 
in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and 
his dread of any thing approaching to meanness 
or servility, tendered his manner sosiewhat de- 
cided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more 
remarkable among his various attainments, than 



the fii-st, and aiways wished that his pursiMr? 
and habits should continue the same as in th*- 
former part of life ; with the addition of, what 
I considered as then completely within his reach, 
a good farm on moderate tenns, in a part of the 
country agreeable to his taste. 

The attentions he received during his stay it 
town from all ranks and descriptions of persons, 
were such as would have turned any head but 
his own. I cannot say that I could perceive 
any unfavourable effect which they left on his' 
mind. He retained the same simplicity of man- 
ners an., appearance which had struck nie so 
forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; 
nor did he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
portance from the nuiuber and rank of his new 
acquaintance. His dress was perfectlv suited to 
his station, plain and unpretending, with a suf- 
ficient attention to neatness If I recollect right 
he always wore boots ; and, when on more that 
usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches. 

The variety of his engagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so 
often as I could have wished. In the course of 
the spring he called on me once or twice, at 
my request, early in the morning, and walked 
with me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood 
of the town, when he charmed me still more by 
his private conversation, than he had ever done 
in company. He was passionately fond of the 
beauties of nature ; and I recollect once he told 
me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in 
one of our morning walks, that the sight of so 
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his 
mind, which none could understand who had 
not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and 
the woith which they contained. 

In his political principles he was then a Ja. 
cobite ; which was perhaps owing partly to 
this, that his father was originally from the e.s- 
tate of Lord Marcschall. Indeed he did not 
appear to have thought much on such subjects, 
nor very consistently. He had a very strong 
sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at 
the levity with which he had heard it treated 
occasionally in some convivial meetings which 
he frequented. I speak of him as he was in 
the winter of 1786-7; for afterwards we met 
but seldom, and our conversations turned chief- 
ly on his literary projects, or his private affairs, 
do not recollect whether it appears or not 



the fluency, and precisicm, and originality of I from any of your letters to me, that you had 
his language, when he spoke iu company ; more i ever seen Burns. If you have, it is superfluouc 
particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of for me add, that the idea which his conversa 

tioo conveyed of the powers of his mind, ex.- 



expression, and avoided more successfully than 
most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish 
phraseology. 

He came to Edinburgh early in the winter 
following, and remained there for several months. 



ceeded, if possible, that which is suggested by 
his writings. Among the p.ets whom 1 have 
happened to know, I have been struck, in more 
than oiie instance, with the unaccountable dis- 



By whose advice he took this step, I am unable ' p irity between their general talents, and the oc- 
ja say. Perhaps it was suggested only by his 
DWn curiosity to see a little more of the world ; 
iut, I confess I dreaded the conse^juences from 



• See Songs, p. Jltt 



casiou;d inspirations of their more favoured mo- 
ments. But all the faculties of Burns's mind 
were, as far as I could judge, equally vigorous ; 
and his predilection for poetry was rather the 
result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned 



394 



BURNS* WORKS. 



temper, than of a f^feiiius exclusively adapted to degree of true genius, the extreme facility «b4( 
that species of composition. From his conver- good nature of his taste, in judging of the comp- 
eation I should have pronounced him to be fit- positions of otheis, where there was any reai 



ted to excel in whatever w.ilk of ambition 
had chosen to exert his abilities 

Among the subjects on which he was accus- 
tomed to dwell, the characters of the individu- 
als with whom be happened to meet, was plain- 
ly a favourite one. The remarks he made on 



ground for praise. I repeated to him many 
passages of English poetry with which he was 
unacquainted, and have more than once wit- 
nessed the tears of admiration and rapture with 
which he heard them. The collection of songa 
bv Dr. Aiken, which I first put into his hands, 



them were always slireu-d and pointed, though he read with unmixf'd (le]lfi;ht, notwithstanding 
frequently inclining too much to sarcasm. His his former efforts in that very difficult species 
praise of those he loved was sometimes indiscri- | of writintj; ; and I have little doubt that it !".ad 
minat.e and extravagant; but this, I suspect, [ some effect in polishing his subsequent compo- 
proceedeil rather from the caprice and humour I sitions. 

of the moment, than from the effects of attach- j In judging of prose, 1 do not think his taste 
ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was 
ready, and always impressed with the marks of 
a vigorous understanding ; but, to my taste, 
not often pleasing or h.tppy His attempts at 
epigram, in his printed works, are the only per- 
formances, perhaps, that he has produced, to- 
tally unworthy of his genius. 

In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in 
Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasiimally. I think i The influence of this taste is very perceptible 
that he made a pretty long excursion that sea- j in nis own prose compositions, although their 
son to the Highlands, and that he also visited great and various excellencies render some of 
what Beattie calls the .\rcadian ground of Scot- { them scarcely less objects of wonder th;.n his 
land, upon the banks of the Teviot and the [ poetical performances. The late Dr. Robertson 
Tweed. I used to say, that, considering his education, the 

I should have mentioned before, that not- [former seemed to him the rao^e extraordinary of 



was equally sound. I once read tn him a pas- 
sage or two in Franklin's Works, which I 
thought very happily executed, upon the modef 
of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish, or 
to perceive the beauty which they derived from 
tlieir exqui.site simplicity, and spoke of thera 
with indifference, when compared with the 
point, and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. 



withstanding various reports I heard during the 
preceding winter, of Burns's ])redilection for 
convivial, and not very select society, I should 
have concluded in favour of his habits of so- 
briety, from all of him that ever fell under my 
own observation. He told me indeed himself, 
that the weakness of his stomach was such as 
to deprive him entirely of any merit in his tem- 
perance. I "vas however somewhat alarmed 
about the effect of his now comparatively seden- 
tary and luxurious life, when he confessed to 
me, the first night he spent in my house after 
his. winter's campaign in town, that he had been 
much disturbed when in bed, by a palpitation 
at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint 
to which he had of late become subject. 

In the course of the same season, I was led 
by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Ma- 
son-Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. 
He had occasi«)n to make some short unpre- 
meditated compliments to different individuals 
from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, 
and everv thing he said was happily conceived, 
»nd forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If 
I am not mistaken, he to'd me, that \v ♦hat 
village, before going to Edinburgh, he had be- 
longed to a small club of such of the inhabi- 
tants as had a taste for books, when they used 
to converse and debate on any interesting ques- 
tions that occurred to them in the course of 
-.heir reading. His manner of speaking in pub- 
lic had evidently tht marks of some practice in 
exten pore elocution. 

I must not omit to mention, what I have al- 
woits considered as characteristical in a high 



the two. 

His memory was uncommonly retentive, at 
least for poetry, of which he recited to me fre- 
quently long compositions with the most mi- 
nute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and 
other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part 
of them (he told me) he had learned in his 
childhood, from his mother, who delighted in 
such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude 
as it probably was. gave, it is presumable, the 
first direction to her son's genius. 

Of the more polished verses which acciden- 
tally fell into his hands in his early years, he 
mentioned particularly the recommendatory 
poems, by different authors, prefixed to Hfrvey*s 
Meditatio7is ; a book which has always had a 
very wide circulation among such of the coun 
trv people of Scotland, as affect to unite son**" 
degree of taste with their religious studies. And 
these poems (altJiough they are certainly beloir 
mediocrity) he continued to read with a degree 
of rapture beyond expression. He took notica 
of this fact himielf, as a proof how much the 
taste is liable to be influenced by accidental cir- 
cumstances. 

His father appeared to me, from the account 
he gave of him, to have been a reispectable and 
worthy character, possessed of a mind superior 
to what might have been expected from hi3 
station in life. He ascribed much of his own 
principles and feelings to the early impressions 
he had received from his instructions and exam- 
ple. I recollect that he once applied to him 
(and he added, that the pass.ige was u litera. 
statement of fact,) the two last lines of the fol 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



•295 



iOWing passage in the Minstrel ; the whole of 
which he repeated with great euthusiasm : 

* Shall I be lefr forgotten in the du8t, 

When fate, relenting, l»^ts the flower revive ; 
Bhall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to 
live ?'* 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 

With disappointment, penury, and pain? 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright through th' eternal year of love's trium- 
phant reigu. 

litis truth sublime, hia simple sire had taught : 
In sooth, Uwas almost all the shepherd knew. 

With respect to Buins's early education, I 
cannot say any thing with certdinty. He al- 
ways spoke with respect and gratitude of the 
school-master who had taught him to read Eng- 
lish ; and who, finding in his scholar a inoie 
than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had hreti 
at pains to instruct him in (he friainm.itical 
principles of the language. He began the study 
jf Latin, but drop}.:ed it before he b,id finisiied 
the verbs. I have sometimes heaid him quote 
a few Latin words, such as omnia vincit alitor, 
fcc, but they seemed to be such as he had 
caught from conversation, and which he re- 
peated by rote. I think he had a pioject, after 
he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study 
under his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicoll, 
one of the master- of the grammar-school here ; 
but I do not know that he ever proceeded so 
far as to make the attempt. 

He certainly possessed a smattering of French ; 
and, if he had an affectation in any thing, 
it was in introducing occasionally a word or 
phrase from that language. It is possible that 
his knowledge in this respect might be more 
extensive than I suppose it to be • "^ut this you 
can learn from his more intimate acquaintance. 
It would be worth while to inquire, whether 
he was able to read the French authors with 
such facility as to receive from them any im- 
provement to his taste. For my own part, I 
doubt it much — nor would I believe it, but on 
very strong and pointed evidence. 

If my memory does not fail me, he was well 
instructed in arithmetic, and knew something 
of practical geometry, particularly of surveying. 
— All his other attainments were entirely his 
own. 

The last time I saw him was during the win- 
ter, 1788-89 ; when he passtd an evening with 
m*" at Drumsheui^h, in the neighbourhood of 
Edinburgh, where I was then living. My friend 
Mr. Alison was the only other person in com- 
pany. I never saw him more agreeable or in- 
teresting. A present which Mr. Alison sent 
him afrerwanis df liis £!.s.-.at/6 on . u^itf, drew 
frt'Ui Burns a letter oi ai knowk-d^^meut, which 
i remfcm'>'if to I ave read ••vaii some icgree of 



surprise at the distinct c<>n eption he appeared 
from it to have formed, of the general princi- 
ples of the doctrine of association. When I 
saw Mr. Alison in Shropshire last autumn, I 
forgot to inquire if the letter be still in exist- 
ence. If it is, you may easily procure it, b> 
means of our friend Mr. Houlbrocke. 



No. LXIX. 

FROM GILBERT BURNS 

TO 

DR. CURRIE, 

GIVING THE HISTORY OF THE OKIGIM OT THJ 
PKINCIPAL POEMS. 

It may gratify curiosity to know some particu- 
lars of the history of the preceding Poems, 
on which the celebrity of our Bard has been 
hitherto founded ; and with this view the 
following extract is made from a letter of 
Gilbert Burns, the brother of our Poet, and 
his friend and confidant from his earliest 
years. 

DEAR SIR, Mossyiel, 2d April, 1798. 

YouH letter of the 14th of March I leceived 
in due course, but, from the hurry of the sea-, 
son, have been hitherto hindered from answer 
ing it. I will now try to give you what satis»- 
iaction I can in regard to the particulars you 
mention. I cannot pretend to be very accurate 
in respect to the dates of the poems, hut 'none 
of them, except Winter, a Dirye, (which was 
a juvenile production), the Death and Dying 
Words of poor Mailie, and some of the songs, 
were composed before the year 1784. The cir- 
cumstances of the poor sheep were pretty much 
as he has described them. He had. partly by 
way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs from 
a neighbour, and she was tethered in a field ad- 
joining the house at Lochlie. He and I were 
going out with our teams, and our two younger 
brothers to drive for us, at mid- day, when 
Hugh \^ ilson, a curious looking awkward boy, 
clad in plaiding, came to us with much anxiety 
in his face, with the information that the ewe 
had entangled herself in the tether, and was ly- 
ing in the ditch. Robert was much tick'-r-d 
with Huyhocs ajipeaiance and postures on the 
occasion. Poor Mailie was set to rights, and 
when we returned from the plough in the even- 
ing, he repeated to me lier Utah and Dying 
Wards pretty nmch in the way they now stanu. 

Among the earliest of his poems was tiie 
Ki,i.-^ile to DdVie. Robert often compused with- 
out any regular plan. When ;uiy tl mg ii.ade a 
strung lnl^.^^•^slon on his mind, so a- o k.os- \t 



BURNS' WORKS. 



io poetic exertion, he would give way to the 
impulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. 
If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, 
he would then think of proper introductory, 
connecting, and concluding stanzas ; hence the 
middle of a poem was often first pn»duced. It 
was, I think, in summer 1784, when in the 
Interval of harder labour, he and I were weed- 
ing in the garden (kailyard) that he repeated to 
nie the principal part of this epistle. I believe 
the first idea of Robert's becoming an author 
was started on this occasion. I was much 
pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was 
of opinion it would bear being printed, and 
that it would be well received by people of 
taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not 
Buperior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epistles, 
and that the merit of these, and much other 
Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in 
the kriark of the expression — but here, there 
was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the 
Scotticism of the language scarcely seemed af- 
fected, but appeared to be the natural language 
of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly 
some novelty in a pott pointing out the conso- 
iatiims that were in store for him when he 
should go a-begging. Robert seemed very well 
pleased with my criticism ; and we talked of 
Bending it to some magazine, but es this plan 
affortled no opportanity of knowing how it 
would tal<i.', tlie idea was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as 
we were going together with carts for coal to 
the family fire (and I could yet point out the 
particu'.ir s|)ot), that the author first repeated 
to me tiie Address to the Deil. The curious 
idea of such an address was suggested to him, 
by running over in liis mind the many ludicrous 
accounts and representations we have, from va- 
rious (juarters, of this august personage. Death 
and Dr. Hornlxxjk, though not published in 
the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in 
the year I7H5. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton 
parish, to eke up the scanty subsistence allowed 
to that useful class of meu, had set up a shop 
of grocery goods. Haviiig accidentally fallen in 
with some medical books, an<l become most 
hobby-horsically attached to the study of medi- 
cine, he had added the sale of a few medicines 
to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill 
printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking 
his own incapacity, he had advertised, that 
'• Advice would he given in comnjon disorders 
at the shop, gratis." Robert was at a mason- 
meeting, in Tarbolton, when the " Dominie" 
unfortunately made too ostentatious a display of 
his medical skill. As he parted in the evening 
fi-om this mixture of pedantry and physic, at 
the place where he describes his meeting with 
Death, one of those floating ideas of apparition, 
he mentions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed 
his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of 
the way home. These circumstances he relat- 
ed when he repeated the verses to me next af- 
i«rn')un, a;i 1 was holding the plough, and he 



was letting the watei off the field beside m« 
The Epistle ij John Lapratk was prodocwi 
exactly on the occasion described by the authoi. 
He says in that poem, On fasten e'ew he had a 
rnckin. I believe he has omitted the word 
rocking v^ the glossary. It is a term derived 
from tho£<. primitive times, when the country- 
women employe*! their spare hours in spinning 
on the rock, or distaff. This simple instrument 
is a very portable one, and weH fitted to the so- 
cial inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase of going a-rocking or 
with the rock. As the connection the phrase 
had with the implement was forgotten whec 
the rock gave way to the spinning-wheel, the 
phrase came to be used by both sexes on socia. 
occasions, and men talk of going with their 
rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
when we had twelve or fifteen young people with 
their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning — 
" When I upon thy bosom lean,** was sung, 
and we are informed who was the author. 
Upon this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lap- 
raik ; and his second in reply to his answer. 
The verses to the Mouse and Mountain-Daisy 
were composed on the occasions mentioned, and 
while the author was holding the plough ; ' 
could point out the particular spot where each 
was composed. Holding the plough was a fa- 
vourite situation with Robert for poetic compo- 
sitions, and some of his best verses were pro- 
duced while he was at that exercise. Several 
of the poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the 
author. He used to remark to me, that he 
could not well conceive a mora mortifying pic- 
ture of human life than a man seeking work. 
In casting about in his mind how this sentiment 
might be brought forward, the elegy Man was 
made to Mourn, was composed. Robert had 
frequently remaiked to me, that he thought 
theie was 3v>...:*hing peculiarly venerable in the 
phrase, '* Let us worship God," used by a de- 
cent sober head of a family introducing family 
worship. To this sentiment of the author the 
world is indebted foi- the Cotter's Saturday 
Night. The hint of the plan, and the title of 
the poem, were t.iken from Fergusson's Farmer^s 
Inyle. When llohert had not some [dea^ure ixt 
view in which I was not thoi i^ht fit to partici- 
pate, we used frequently to walk together when 
the weather was favourable, on the Sunday af- 
ternoons, (those precious breathing-times to the 
labouring part of the community), and enjoyed 
s(\ich Sundays as would make one regret to see 
their number abridged. It was in one of thesr 
walks that I first had the ph-asure of heating 
the author repeat the Cotter's Saturday Night 
I do not recollect to have read or heard any 
thing by which I was more highly electrized. 
The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, 
thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through my soul 
I mention this to you, that you may see what 
hit the taste of tfMle^tered criticism. I should 



CORRES FON DENCE. 



29^ 



be giAi) tc know, If Jie en.ightened nuDd and 
renrieii taste of Mr. Roscoe, who his home such 
hoiiouraoie testl:iiony to this poem, agrees with 
me in the selection. Fergusson, in his Hallow 
fan of Eilinhuijrh, I l)elieve, likewise furni.sh- 
ed a hint of the title and plan of the Holi/ Fair, 
The farcical scene the poet there describes 
was often a favourit'C field of his observation, 
and tKe most of the incidents he mentions 
had actually paS'Sed before his eyes. It is scarce- 
ly necessary to mention, that the Lament was 
composed on that uiifoi tuuate passage in his ma- 
trimonial history, which I have mentioned in 
my letter to Mrs. Duiilop, after the first distrac- 
tion of his tt clings had a little sui)sided. The 
Tjlc of Twa Diicis was composed after the re- 
solution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert 
had had a dog, which he called Luath, that was 
a great favourite. The dog had been killed by 
the wanton cruelty of some person the night be- 
fore my father's death. Robert said to me, that 
he should like to confer such immortality as he 
could bestow upon his old friend Luuth, and 
that he had a great ir.ind to introduce something 
into the book under the title of Stanzas to the 
Mtmory iifn quudrnptd Friend ; but this plan 
Was given up for the Tale as it now stands. 
CcBsar was merely the creature of the poet's 
imagination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favourite Luath. The first time 
Robert h'-ard the spinuet played upon, was at the 
house of Dr. Lawrie, then minisier of the parish 
of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up 
the pai ish in favour of his son. Dr. Lawrie 
has several daughters ; one of them played ; the 
father and mother led down the dance ; the rest 
of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the 
other guest, mixed in it. It was a delightful 
family scene for our poet, then lately introduced 
to the world. His mind was roused to a poetic 
enthusia-m, and the stanzas, p. 36, were left in 
the room wheie he slept. It was to Dr. Law- 
rie that Dr. Elacklock's letter was addressed, 
which my hnother, in his letter to Dr. Moore, 
mentions as the reason of his going to Edinburgh. 
When my father Jeued his little property near 
illoway Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had 
gone to ruin, an<l cattle had free liberty of pas- 
turing in it. My father, with two or three other 
neighbours, joined in an application to the town 
council of A\r, who were superiors of the ad- 
joining land, tor liberty to rebuild it, and raised 
by sub>cription a sum for enclosing this ancient 
cemetery with a wall ; hence he came to con- 
sider it as his burial-place, and we learned that 
reverence fur it, people generally have for the 
bnrial-place of their ancestors. My brother was 
living in Ellisla::d, when Captain Grose, on his 
peregrin. itions through Scotland, s.aid some time 
at Curse-house, in the neighbourhood, with 
Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddell, a parti- 
cular frie;:d of my hi other's. The Antiquarian 
tnd the Poet were '• Unco pack ynd thick the- 
fither, '• Robert r'jquested of Captain Grose, 
whea he should come co A)r3hir<:, chat he would 



make a drawing of Alloway Kiik, as it was th« 
burial-place of his father, and where he himsell 
had a sort of claim to lay down his hones when 
they should be no longer serviceable to him ; 
and added, by way of encouragement, that it 
was the scene of many a good story of witches 
and apparitions, of which he knew the Captaic 
was very fond. The Captain agreed to the re- 
quest, provided the Poet would furnish a witch- 
story, to be printed along with it. Turn o' 
Shanter was produced on this occasion, and was 
first published in Grose's Antiquities of Scot- 
land. 

This poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading circumstances of a man riding home 
very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, his seeing 
a light in Alloway Kirk, his having the curiosity 
to look in, his seeing a dance of witches, with 
the devil playing on the bag-pipe to them, the 
scanty covering of one of the witches, which 
made him so far forget himself as to cry — " Weel 
loupen, short sark !" — with the melancholy ca- 
tastrophe of the piece ; is all a true story, that 
can be well attested by many respectable old 
people in that neighbourhood. 

I do not at present recollect any circumsunces 
respectig the other poems, that could be at all 
interesting ; even some of those I have mention- 
ed, I am afraid, may appear trifling enough, but 
you will only make use of what appears to you 
of consequence. 

The following Poems in the first Edinburgh 
edition, were not in that published in Kilmar 
nock. Death and Dr. Hornbook ; The JSrigi 
of Ayr t The Calf ; (the poet had been with 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton in the morning, who said 
jocularly to him when he was going to church, 
in allusion to the injunction of some parents ta 
their children, that he must be sure to bring 
him a note of the sermon at mid-day ; this ad- 
dress to the Revereid Gentleman on his text 
was accordingly produced ). The Ordination; 
The Address to the Unco Guid; Tarn Sam- 
son*s Elegy ; A Winter Night ; Stanzas on 
the same occasion as the preceding prayer ; 
Verses left at a Reverend Friend's house ; Th* 
firsl Psalm i Prayer under the pressure of vio- 
lent anguish The first six verses of the nine- 
teenth Psalm ; Verses to Miss JLogan, with 
Seattle's Poems ; To a Haggis ; Address to 
Edinburgh ; John barleycorn ; Wtttn Gail- 
ford Guid ; Behind yon hills whtre Stinchar 
flows , Green grow the Rashes ; Again re- 
joicing Nature sees ; The gloomy Night ,• N'i 
Churchman am I. 



No. LXX. 
FROM GILBERT BURNS 

TO 

DR. CURRIE. 
Dinning, Dumfriesshire, 24M Oct. 1800. 

DEAR SIR, 

Youjis of the 17th instant came to my hai>4 
T2 



298 



BURNS' WORKS. 



yesterday, and T sit down this afhernoon to write 
Jrou in return ; but when I shall be able to 
finish all I wish to say to you, I cannot tell. I 
am sorry your conviction is not complete re- 
specting feck. There is no doubt that if you 
take two English words which appear synony- 
mous to mony feck, and jud^^e by the rules of 
English construt tiun, it will appear a barbarism. 
I believe if you take this mode of translating 
from any language, the effect will frequently be 
the same. But if you take the expression mony 
feck to have, as I have stated it, the same mean- 
ing with the English expression very many, 
(and such license every translator must be al- 
lowed, especially when he translates from a 
simple dialect which has never been subjected 
to rule, and where the precise meaning of words 
is of consequence not minutely attended to), it 
will be well enough. One thing I am certain 
of, that ours is the sense universally understood 
in this country ; and I believe no Scotsman who 
has lived contented at home, pleased with the 
•imple manners, the simple melodies, and the 
simple dialect of his native country, unvitiated 
by foreign intercourse, " whose soul proud 
science never taught to stray," ever discovered 
barbarism in the song of Etrick Banks. 

The story you have heard of the gable of my 
father's house falling down, is simply as fol- 
lows . — When my father built his " clay big- 
gin," he put in two stone-jambs, as they are 
called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney in 
his cliiy-gable. The consequence was, that as 
the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining firm, 
threw it off its centre ; and, one very stormy 
morning, when my brother was nine or ten 
days old, a little before day-light, a part of the 
gable fell out, and the rest appeared so shatter- 
ed, that my mother, with the young poet, hud 
to be carried through the storm to a neighbi>ur's 
house, where they remained a week till their 
own dwelling was adjusted. That you may not 
think too meanly of this house, or of my fa- 
ther's taste in building, by supposing the poets 
description in the Vision (which is ei tiro'y a 
fancy picture) applicable to it, allow uie to take 
notice to you, that the house consisted of a 
kitchen in one end, and a room in the other, 
with a fire-place and chimney ; that my father 
had constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen, 
with a small closet at the end, of the same ma- 
terials with the house, and, when altogether cast 
over, outside and in, with lime, it had a neat, 
comfortable appearance, such as no family of the 
same rank, in the present improved style of 
living, would think themselves ill-lodged in. I 
wish likewise to take notice in passing, that al- 
though the " Cotter," in the Saturday Night, 
is an exact copy of my father in his manners, 
his family devotion, and exhorta ions, yet the 
other parts of the description do not apply to 
our family. None of us were ever " at service 
out amang the neebors roun." Instead of our 
iepositiiig our " sair won penny-fee" with our 
parents, my father laboured hard, and lived with 



the most rigid economy, that he might he able 
to keep his children at home, thereby having an 
opportunity of watching the progress of our 
young minds, and forming in them early habit* 
of piety and virtue ; and from this motive alone 
did he engage in farming, the source of all his 
difficulties and distresses. 

When I threatened you in my last with a 
long letter on the subject of the books I recom- 
mended to the Mauchline club, and the effects 
of refinement of taste on the la!)ouring classes 
of men, I meant merely that 1 wished to write 
you on that subject, with the view that, in some 
future communication to the public, you mijjht 
take up the subject more at large, that, by means 
of your hap,)y manner of writing, the attention 
of people of power and iufluence might be fixed 
on it. I had little expectation, however, that 
I should oveicome my indoieuce, and tlie diffi- 
culty of ananging my thoughts so far as to put 
my threat in execution, till some time ago, be- 
fore I had finished my harvest, having a call 
from Mr. Ewart, with a message from y*»u, 
pressing me to the performance o^ this ta^k, I 
thought myself no longer at liberty to decline 
it, and resolved to set about it with my first 
leisure. I will now therefore endeavour to lay 
before you what has occurred to my mind on a 
subject where people capable of observation, and 
of placing their remarks in a pioper point of 
view, have seldom an opportunity of making 
their remarks on real life. In (loini^ this I may 
perhaps be led sometimes to write mure in the 
manner of a person comnmnicating iiifuiuiation 
to you which you did not know Lefoie, and at 
other times more in the style of egotism than I 
would choose to do to any jierson in whose can- 
dour, and even personal good-will, 1 hud less 
confidence. 

There are two several lines of study that open 
to every man as he enters life : the one, the ge- 
neral science of life, of duty, and ot happiness •■ 
the other, the particular arts of his employmen? 
or situation in society, and the several branches 
of knowledge therewith connected. This last is 
certainly indispensable, as nothing can be more 
disgraceful than ignorance in the way of onn'w 
own profession ; and whatever a man's specula- 
tive knowledge may be, if he is ill informed 
there, he can neither be a useful nor a respect- 
able member of society. It is nevertheless true, 
that *' the proper study of mankind is man ;" 
to consider what duties are encutnbent on him 
as a rational creature, and a member of society ; 
how he may increase or secure his happiness ; 
and how he may prevent or soften the many 
miseries incident to human life. I think the 
pursuit of happiness is too frequently contiricd 
to the endeavour after the acquisition of wealth, 
I do not wish to be considered as an idle de- 
claimer against riches, which, after all that can 
be said against them, will still be considered by 
men of common sense as objects of importance ; 
and poverty will be felt as a sore evil, after a& 
the fine things that can be said of its advau 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



299 



fcige« , on the contrary I am of opinion, that a 
freat proportion of the miseries of life arise from 
the want of economy, and a prudent attention 
to money, or the ill-directed or intemperate pur- 
suit of it. But however valuable riches may be 
as the means of comfort, independence, and the 
pleasure of doing good to others, yet I am of 
opinion, that they may be, and frequently are, 
purchased at too great a cost, and that sacrifices 
are made in the pursuit which the acquisition 
cannot comfjensate. I "emember bearing my 
Worthy teacher, Mr. Murdoch, relate an anec- 
dote to my father, which I think sets this mat- 
ter in a strong light, and perhaps was the ori- 
gin, or at least tended to promote this way of 
thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left Al- 
ioway, he went to teach and reside in the family 
of an opulent farmer who had a number of sons. 
A neighbour coming on a visit, in the course of 
conversation asked the father how he meant to 
dispose of his sons. The father replied, that he 
had not determined. The visitor said, that were 
he in his place he would give them all good 
education and send them abroad, without (per- 
haps) having a precise idea where. The father 
objected, that many young nien lost their health 
in foreign countries, and many their lives. True, 
replied the visitor, but as you have a number of 
sons, it will he strange if some one of them does 
not live ami make a fortune. 

Let any person who has the feelings of a fa- 
ther comment on this story ; but though few 
will avow, even to themselves, that such views 
govern their conduct, yet do we not daily see 
people >hipping off their sons, (and who would ■ 
do so by their daughters also, if there were any ' 
demand for them), that they may be rich or i 
perish ? 

The education of the lower classes is seldom | 
considered in any other point of view than as 
tlie means of raising them from that station to 
which they were born, and (f making a fortune. 
I am ignorant of the mystei ies of the art of ac- 
quiring a fortune without any thing to begin with, 
and cannot calculate, with any degree of exact- 
ness, the d fficulties to be surmounted, the mor- ' 
tifications to be suffered, and the degradation j 
of character to be submitted to, in lending one's 
self to be the minister of other people's vices, or 
in the practice of rapine, fraud, oppression, or 
dissimulation, in the progress ; but even when 
the wished for end is attained, it may be ques- 
tioned whether happiness be much increased by 
the change When I hive seen a fortunate ad- 
venturer of the lower ranks of life returned from 
the East or West Indies with all the hauteur of 
a vulgar mind accustomed to be >erved by slavfSs 
asauniitig a character, whicli, from the early ha- 
bits of life, he is ill fitted to support, displaying 
magnificeiue which raises the envy of some, and 
the contempt of others ; claiming an equality 
vith the great, which they are unwilling to al- 
low ; inly p niiig at the precedence oi the here- 
ditary gentry ; maddened by the polished inso- 
Wace of some of the unworthy part of them ; 



seeking pleasure in the society of men who can 
condescend to flatter him, and listen to his ab- 
surdity for the sake of a good dinner and good 
wine; I cannot avoid concluding, that his bro- 
ther, or companion, who, by a diligent applica- 
tion to the labours of agriculture, or .some use- 
ful mechanic employment, and the careful hus«. 
banding of his gains, has acquired a competence 
in his station, is a much happier, and, in the 
eye of a person who can take an enlarged view 
of mankind, a much more respectable man. 

But the votaries of wealth may be considered 
as a great number of candidates striving for a 
few prizes, and whatever addition the successful 
may make to their pleasure or hapjjiness, the 
disappointed will alvvays have more to suffer, I 
am afraid, than those who abide contented ia 
the station to which they were born. I wish, 
therefore, the education of the lower classes to 
be promoted and directed to their improvement; 
as men, as the means of increasing their virtue, 
and opening to them new and dignified sources 
of pleasure and happiness. 1 have heard some 
people object to the education of the lower clas- 
ses of men, as rendering them less useful, by 
abstracting them from their proper business ; 
others, as tending to make them saucy to their 
superiors, impatient of their condition, and tur- 
bulent siil)j(.'crs ; while you, with more huma- 
nity, have your fears alarmed, lest the delicacy 
of mind, induced by that sort of education and 
readiny; I leconimend, should render the evils 
of their situation in upportable to them. I wish 
to examine the validity of each of these objec- 
tions, beginning with the one you have men- 
tioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criticism of 
my favourite books, the Mirror and Lounger, 
although I understand there are people who 
think themselves judges, who do not agree with 
you. The acquisition of knowledge, except 
what is connected with human life and con- 
duct, or the particular business of his employ- 
ment, does not appear to me to be the fittest 
pursuit for a peasant. I would say with the 
poet, 

" How empty learning, and how vain is at^, 
Save where it guides the life, or mends the 
heart !" 

There seems to be a considerable latitude ia 
the use of the word taste. I understand it to 
be the perception and relish of beauty, order, 
or any other thing, the contemplation of which 
gives pleasure and delight to the mind. I sup- 
pose it is in this sense you wish it to be under- 
st(»od. If I am right, the taste which these 
books are calculated to cultivate, (beside the 
taste for fine writing, which many of the papers 
tend to improve and to gratify), is what is pro- 
per, consistent, and becoming in human cha- 
racter and conduct, as almost every paper relatef 
to these subjects. 

I aai sorry I have not these books bj aat^ 



800 



BtRNS* WORKS. 



lljat I mi^Lt point out some instances. I re- 
noei. her two ; one, the beautiful story of La 
Rocne, where, beside the pleasure one derives 
from a beautiful simple story told in M'Kenzie's 
happiest manner, the mind is led to taste, with 
heartfelt rapture, the consolation to be derived 
in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and 
trust in Almighty God. The other, the story 

of General W , where the reader is led to 

dave a high relish for that firmness of mind 
which disregards appearances, the common forms 
and vanities of life, for the sake of doing justice 
in a case which was out of the reach of human 
laws 

Allow me then to remark, that if the mora- 
lity of these books is subordinate to the cultiva- 
tion of ta><te ; that taste, that refinement of 
mind and delicacy of sentiment which they are 
intended to give, are the strongest guard and 
surest foundation of morality and virtue. Other 
n\oralists guard, as it were, the overt act ; these 
papers, by exalting d^uty into sentiment, are cal- 
culated to make every deviation from rectitude 
vad propriety of conduct, painful to the mind, 

*' Whose temper'd powers. 
Refine at length, and every passion wears 
\ chaster, milder, more attractive mien." 

I readily grant you that the refinement of 
mind which I contend for, increases our sensi- 
bility to the evils of life ; but what station of 
life is without its evils ! There seems to be no 
Buch thing as perfect happiness in this world, 
and we must balauce the pleasure and the pain 
which we derive from taste, befoie we can pro- 
perly appreciate :t in the case before us, I ap- 
prehend that on a minute ^examination it will 
appear, that '.he evils peculiar to the lower ranks 
of life, derive their power to worud us, more 
from the suggestions of fais^ pnde, and the 
" contagion of luxury weak and vile," than the 
refinement of our taste. It was a fa"our?te re- 
mark of my brother's, that there was po part 
of the constitution of our nature, to whici. we 
were more indebted, than that by which '' cus- 
tom makes th'inys familiar and easy,** (a copy 
Mr. Murdoch used to set us to write), and there 
is little labour which custom will not make easy 
to a man in health, if he is not ashamed of his 
emplnympnt, or does not begin to compare his 
situation with those he may see going about aC 
their ease. 

But the man of enlarged mind feels the re- 
spect due to him ;»8 a man ; he has learned that 
DO employment is dishonourable in itself; that 
while he performs aright the duties of that sta- 
tion in which God has placed him, he Is as 
great as a king in the eyes of Him whom he is 
principally desirous to please ; for the man of 
taste, who is constantly obliged to labour, must 
of necessity be religious. If vou teach him only 
to reason, you may inake him in atheist, a dema- 
gogue, or any vile thing ; but if you teach him 
to fe«l, his feelings can only find their proper 



and Datura, relief in devotiou ZkXii. leligions n, 
signation. He knows that those people who are 
to appearance at ease, are not without theit 
share of evils, and that even toil itself is not 
destitute of advantages. He listens to the worda 
of his favourite poet : 

" O mortal man, that livest here by toil, 

Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ; 
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 

Although sometimes it makes thee weep and 
wail, 
And curse thy stars, and early drudge and late; 

Withouten that would come a heavier bale. 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale !" | 

And, while he repeats the words, the grateful 
recollection comes across his mind, how often he 
has derived ineffable pleasure from the sweet 
song of '• Nature's darling child." I can say, 
from my own experience, that there is no sort 
of farm labour inconsistent with the most re- 
fined and pleasurable state of the mind that I 
am acquainted with, thrashing alone excepted. 
That, indeed, I have always considered as in- 
supportable drudgery, and think the ingenious 
mechanic who invented the thrashing machine, 
ought to have a statue among the benefactors of 
his country, and should be placed in the niche 
next to the person who introduced the culture 
of potatoes into this island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance in the 
education of the common people is, to prevetti 
the intrusion of artificial wants. I bliss the 
memory of my worthy father for almost every 
thing in the dispositions of my mind, and my 
haliits of life which I can approve of; and foi 
none more than the pains he took to impress my 
mind with the sentiment, that nothing was more 
unworthy the character of a man, than that his 
happiness should ir. the least depend on what he 
should eat or drink. So earl/ did he impress 
my mind with this, that although I was as fond 
<if sweetmeats as children generally are, yet I sel- 
dom laid out any of the half-pence which rela- 
tions or neighbours gave me at fairs, in the pur- 
chase of them ; and if I did, every mouthful I 
swallowed was accompanied with shame and re- 
morse ; and to this hour I never indulge in the 
use of any delicacy, but I feel a considerable de- 
gree of self-reproach and alarm for the degrada- 
tion of the human character. Such a habit ol 
thinking I consider as of great consequeDce, 
both to the virtue aud happiness of men in th€ 
l«>wer ranks of life. And thus. Sir, I am of 
opinion, that if their minds are early and deeply 
imprest with a sense of the dignity of man, as 
such ; with the love of independence and of in- 
dustry, economy and temperance, as the most 
obvious means of making themselves indepeu 
dent, ind the vi»"tues most becoming their situ* 
ation, and necessary to their haopiuess ; men ir 
the lower r&aks ox life maj partake of the plea 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



30 



Mires to be derived from the perusal of books 
ealculattMi to improve the mind and refine the 
taste, without any danger of becoming more un- 
happy in their situation, or discontented with it. 
Nor do I think there is any danger of their be- 
coming less usefnl. There are some hours every 
day that the most constant labourer is neither 
ftt work nor asleep. These hours are either ap- 
propriated to amusement or to sloth. If a taste 
for employing these hours in reading were cul- 
tivated, I do not suppose that the return to la- 
bour would be more difficult. Every one will 
allow, that the attachment to idle amusements, 
or even to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to 
abstract men from their proper business, as the 
attachment to hooks ; while the one dissipates 
the mind, and the other tends to iacrease its 
powers of self-government. To those who are 
afraid that the improvement of the minds of the 
common people might be dangerous to the state, 
or the established order of society, I would re- 
mark, that turbulence and commotion are cer- 
tainly very inimical to the feelings of a refined 
mind. Let the matter be brought to the test 
of experience and ol)servation. Of what de- 
scription of people are mobs and insurrections 
composed ? Are they not universally ow'ng to 
the want of enlargement and improvement of 
mind among the common people ? Nay, let 
any one recollect the characters of those who 
formed the calmer and more deliberate associa- 
tions, which lately gave so much alarm to the 
government of this country. I suppose few of 
the common people who were to he found iti 
such societies, had the education and turn of 
mind I have been endeavouring to recommend 
Allow me to suggest one reason for endeavour 
ing to enlighten the minds of the common peo- 
ple. Their morals have hitherto been guarded 
by a sort of dim religious aw«, which from a 
vanety of causes seems wearing off. I think the 
alteration in this respect considerable, in the 
short period of my observation. I have already 
given my opinion of the effects of refinement of 
mind on morals and virtue Whenever vulgar 
minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the re- 
ligion in which they have been educated, the 
progress is quick and immediate to downright 
infidelity : and nothing but refinement of mind 
can enable them to distinguish between the pure 
essence of religion, and the gross systems which 
men have been perpetually connecting it with. 
In addition to what has already been done for 
the education of the common people of this coun- 
try, in the establishment ol' parish schools, I 
wish to see the salaries augmented in some pro- 
portion to the present expense of living, and the 
eainings of people of similar rank, endowments 
and usefulness, in society ; and I hope that the 
liberality of the present age will be no longer 
disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of men, 
Buch encouragement as may make parish schools 
worth the attention of men fitted for the impor- 
tant d-uties of that office. In filling up the va- 
cancies, I wou^d have more attention paid to the 



candidate's capacity of leading .he English laa 
guage with grace and propriety ; to his under 
standing thoroughly, and having a high relish 
for the beauties of English authors, both in poetry 
and prose ; to that good sense and knowledge 
of human nature which would enable him to ac- 
qrire some influence on the minds and affection! 
of his scholars ; to the general worth of his cha- 
ractei', and the love of his king and his country, 
than to his proficiency in the knowledge of Latia 
and Greek. I would then have a sort of high 
English class established, not only for the pur- 
pose of teaching the pupils to read in that grace- 
ful and agreeable manner that might make thena 
fond of reading, but to make them understand 
what they read, and discover the beauties of the 
author, in composition and sentiment. I would 
have established in every parish a small circu- 
lating library, consisting of the books which the 
young people had read extracts from in the col- 
lections they had read at school, and any other 
books well calculated to refine the mind, improve 
the moral feelings, recommend the practice of 
virtue, and communicate such knowledge as 
might be useful and suitable to the labouring 
classes of men. I would have the schoolmaster 
act as librarian, and in recommending books to 
his young friends, formerly his pupils, and let- 
ting in the light of them upon their young mind», 
he should have the assistance of the minister. 
If once such education were become general, 
tjie low delights of the public-house, and other 
scenes of riot and depravity, would be contemn- 
ed and neglected, while industry, order, cleanli- 
ness, and every virtue which taste and indepen- 
dence of mind could recommend, would prevail 
and Sourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and 
enlightened populace, with hii;h delight I should 
consider my native country as at the head of all 
the nations of the earth, ancient or modern. 

Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat to the 
fidlest extent, in regard to the length of my let- 
ter. If I had not presumed on dointj it more 
to my liking, I should not have undertaken it ; 
but I have not time to attempt it anew ; nor, if 
I would, am I certain that I should succeed any 
better. I have learned to have less confidence 
in my capacity of writing on such subjects. 

I am much obliged by your kind inquiriee 
about my situation and prospects. J am much 
pleased with the soil of this farm, and with th« 
terms on which I possess it. I receive great 
encouragement likewise in building, enclosing, 
and other conveniences, from my landlord Mr. 
G. S. Monteith, whose general character and 
conduct, as a landlord and country gentlemsr. 
I am highly pleased with. But the land is ia 
such a state as to require a considerable imme- 
didte outlay of money in the purcha'-e of ma- 
nure, the grubbing of brush-wood, removing of 
stones, &c. which twelve years* struggle with a 
farm of a cold ungrateful soil has but ill prepar* 
ed me for. If I can g«t these things done, 
however, to my mind, I think there is next to 
a certainty that in five or six years I shall be io 



802 



BURiSTS' WORKS. 



a hopeful way of attaining a situation which I 
think is eligible for happiness as any one I 
know ; for I have always been of opinion, that 
if a man, bred to the habits of a farming lii*, 
who possesses a farm of good soil, on such terms 
as enaoles him easily to pay all demands, is not 
happy, he ought to look somewhere else than to 
tiis situation for the causes of his uneasiness. 

I beg you will present my most respectful 
compliments to Mrs, Currie, and remember me 
to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr. Roscoe jun. 
whose kind attentions to me, when in Liverpool, 

I shall never forget 1 am, deai- Sir, your most 

obedient, and much obliged humble servant, 
GILBERT BURNS 



DEATH AND CHARACTER OF 
GILBERT BURNS. 

This most worthy and ta'ented individual 
fied at Grant's Braes, in the neighbourhood of 
tiaddington, and on the estate of Lady Blan- 
-yre, for whom he was long factor, on Sunday 
8th April 1827, in the sixty-seventh year of his 
age.* He had no fixed or formed complaint, 
but for several months preceding his dissolution, 
there was a gradual decay of the powers of na- 
ture ; and the infirmities of age, combined with 
severe domestic affliction, hastened the release 
of as pure a spirit as ever inhabited a human 
bosom. On the 4th of January he lost a daugh- 
ter who had long been the pride of the family 
hearth ; and on the 26 th of February following, 
his youngest son, — a youth of great promise, 
died in Edinburgh of typhus fever, just as he 
was about being licensed for the ministry. These 
repeated trials were too much for the excellent 
old man ; the mind which, throughout a long 
and blameless life, had pointed unweariedly to 
its home in the skies, ceased as it were, to hold 
communion with things earthly, and on the re- 
currence of that hallowed morning, which, like 
his sire of old, he had been accustomed to sanc- 
tify, he expired without a groan or struggle, in 
peace, and even love with all mankind, and in 
humble confidence of a blessed immortality.— 
The early life of Mr. Gilbert Burns is inti 
ma*ely blended with that of the poet. He was 
eighteen months younger than Robert — posses, 
sed the same penetrating judgment, and, accord- 
ing to Mr. Murdoch, their first instructor, sur- 
passed him in vivacity till pretty nearly the age 
of manhood. When the greatest of our bards 
was invited by Dr. Blacklock to visit Edinburgh, 
the subject of the present imperfect Memoir was 
struggling in the churlish farm of Mossgiel, and 
toiling late and early to keep a house over his 
aged mother, and unprotected sisters. In these 
circumstances, the poet's success was the first 
thing that s>-emmed the ebbing tide of the for. 
tunes of his iamily . lu settling with Mr. Creech 

• This sketch is by Mr. Macdiarmid, of the Dum- 
Cries Courier, >a which Journal it hrst appeared. 



in February 1788, h? received, as the profits rt( 
his second publication, about ^500, and with 
that generosity, which formed a part of his na« 
ture, he immediately presented Gilbert witn 
nearly the half of his whole wealth. Thus suc- 
coured, the deceased married aMissBreckenridge. 
and removed to a better farm (Dinning in Dum- 
friesshire ), but still reserved a seat at the fami- 
ly board for his truly venerable mother, who died 
a few years ago. While in Dinning, he was re- 
commended to Lady Blantyre ; and though our 
memory does not serve us precisely as to date, 
he must have been an inhabitant of East Lothian, 
for very nearly a quarter of a century. Her 
Ladyship's affairs were managed with the greatest 
fidelity and prudence ; the factor and his con- 
stituent were worthy of each other ; and in a 
district distinguished for *he skill, talents, and 
opulence of its farmers, no man was more re- 
spected then Mr. Gilbert Burns. His wife, 
who still survives, bore him a family of six sons 
anr' five f'.aughtv-rs ; I at of .hese, one s_»n, anri 
four daughters, predeceased their father. His 
means, though limited, were always managed 
with enviable frugality, as a proof of which we 
may state that every one of his boys received 
what is called a classical education. 



No. LXXL 
THE POET'S SCRAP-BOOK. 

The Poet kept a Scrap-Book, which was 
what the title imports, really a thing of shreds 
and patches. In the following extracts, we 
have not been quite so sparing as Dr. Currie, 
whose extracts are above, nor so very profuse an 
Mr. Croraek, who, in his Reliques, has turned 
the book inside out. The prose articles are 
chiefly in the way of maxims or observations 
they have less of worldly selfishness, and more 
of the religious feeling, than those of Rochfou- 
caud : The poetical scraps are numerous — siuch 
of them as are worth preserving, and have not 
already appeared amongst the poems, v.ill be 
found below. 

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 
Tune~-'* The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 

Mv Father wag a Farmer upo i the Carrick border, O 
I And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O ; 

He bade me act a manly part, though 1 had ne'er £ 
I farthing, O, 

! For without an honest manly heart, no man was wortl: 
j regarding, O. 

i Then out into the world my course I did determine, O, 
i Tho* to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great wai 
' charmingt O. 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet my edu. 
cation, O : 

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my r< tuation, O 

In many a way, and vain essajr, I courted fortune's fa 

vour, O : 
Some cause unseen, still stept between, to frustrate 

ead' endeavour, O ; 
, Sonietimcs by foes I was o'eipow'rd ; » >metimes by 
I friends forsaken, O ; 

And when my hope was at the top, I still was v/ottt 
I mistaken. O. 



CORRESPONDENCE 



303 



rhen sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's 

vain delusion, O ; 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this 

conclusion, O; 
The past was bad. and the future hid ; its good or ill 

untryed, O ; 
Bm the present hour was in my pow'r, and to I would 

enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person to be- 
friend me, O; 

So must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sus- 
tain me, O. 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred 
me earlv, O ; 

For one. he said, to labour bred, was a match for for- 
tune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm 
doomed to wander, O, 

Till down mv weary bones 1 lay in everlasting slum- 
ber, O': 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me 
pain or sorrow. O ; 

I live to day, as well's I may, regardless of to-mor- 
row, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a pa- 

jnce, n, 
Tho' fortnne's frown still hunts me down, with all her 

wonted malice. O ; 
I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can make it 

farther, O ; 
But as dailv bread is all I need, I do not much regard 

her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money,0, 
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon 

me, O; 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd 

folly, O ; 
Bui come what "vill, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be 

melancholy; O. 

All you who follow wealth and power with unremit- 
ting ardour, O, 

The nrore in this you l-iok for bliis, you leave your 
view the far 'her, O ; 

Had you i he wraith Potosi boasts, or nations to adore 
you, O, 

A cheerful hnnest hearted clown I will prefer before 
you, O. 

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF 
ROBERT RUISSEAUX.* 

Now Robin lies in his last lair. 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae maif shall fear him; 
Nor anxious fear, nor eankert care 

E'er mair come near hln>. 

To tell the tnsth, thev seldom fash't him. 
Except the moment that they crush't him; 
For suiie as chance or fate had husht 'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short. 
Then wi a rhyme or song he lasht 'em. 

And tliought it sport. — 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 

And counted was baith wight and starkj 

Vet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was a learn d dark. 

Ye roos'd him then, f 

Melavcholy. — There was a certain period of 
my life tbat my spirit was broke hy repeated looses 
and disasters, which threatened, and ko'leed effect- 
ed, the utter ruin of my fortune. My body too 
was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, 
a hypochondria, or contirmed melancholy : In 
this wretched state, the recollectioo of which 



• Ruisteaux — st-eams — a plaj on his own 
. Ye roos'd— ye pr^.is'd. 



makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on t[ t 
willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, in 
one of which I composed the following. [Here 
follows the prayer in distress, p. 78. ) — March 
1794. 

Religious Sentiment. — What a creature is 
man ! A little alarm last nisfht, and to-day, that 
I am mortal, has made such a revolution on my 
spirits ! There is no philosophy, no divinity, 
that comes half so much home to the mind. I 
have no idea of courage that braves Heaven : 
'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in 
Bedlam. 

My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is hia 
manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be 
remedied — in short, the wild, broken fragments 
of a noble, exalted mind in ruins. I meant no 
more by saying he was a favourite hero of 
mine. 

I bate the very idea of a controversial divini- 
ty ; as I firmly believe that every honest upright 
man, of whatever sect, will be accepteil of the 
deity. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, 
but I love the religion of a man. 

Nothing astonisnes me more, when a little 
sickness clogs the wh'^el of life, than the thought- 
less career we run in the hour of health. 
'• None saith, where is God, my maker, that 
giveth songs in the night ; who teatheth us 
more knowledge than the beasts of the field, 
and more understanding than the fowls of the 
air." 

My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last 
clause of Jamie Deans grace, an honest weaver 
in Ayrshire ; " Lord grant that we may lead a 
gude life ! for a gude life maks a gude end, at 
least it helps weel !" 

A decent means of livelihood in the world, an 
approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one 
firm trusty fiiend ; can any body that has these, 
be said to be unhappy ? 

The dignified and dignifying consciousness of 
an honest nnan, and the well grounded trust in 
approving heaven, are two most substantia] 
sources of happiness. 

Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! 
Give me to feel '* another's woe ;" and con- 
tinue with me that dear-lov'd friend that feels 
with mine ! 

In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or 
distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compas- 
sionate Deity, an -^.Imighty Protector, are doubly 
dear. 

I have been, this morning, taking a peep 
through, as Young finely says, '< the dark post- 
ern of time long elapsed ;" 'twa«. a rueful pros- 
|)ect ! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weak- 
ness, and folly ! My life remmded me of a ruin- 
ed temple. What strength, what proportion in 
some parts ! What unsightly gaps, what pros- 
trate ruins in others ! I Kneeled down before 
the Father of Mercies, and said, " Father 1 
have si >ijed agiinftt Heaven, and in thy sight 
and am no nior.' worthy to be called thy sou.' 
I roi» eased, and s-trungthcued. 



S04 



BURNS' WORKS. 



TTERS, 1788. 



No. Lxxn. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 2\st Jan. 1788. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am begin- 
ning to walk across the room. They have been 
six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits 
made me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one 
could resign life as an officer resigns a commis- 
sion : for I would not take in any poor, igno- 
rant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a 
sixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable 
soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, 
a starving cadet: a little more conspicuously 
cvretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
ivant bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal 
my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which 
will be, I suppose, about the middle of next 
week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I shall 
pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-house. 



No. LXXIII. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, I2th Feb. 1788. 
Some things, in your late letters, hurt me : 
flot that 1/ou say them, but that you mistake me. 
Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only 
been all my life my chief dependence, but my 
dearest enjoyment. I have mdeed been the 
luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! 
I have ever been " more fool than knave." 
A mathematician without religion, is a proba- 
ble character ; an irreligious poet, is a monster. 



No. LXXIV. 

TO A LADY. 

MADAM, Mossgiel, 1th March, 1788. 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- 
bruarv affected tne most, so I shall begin my 
answer where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I 
do confess : but I have taxed my recollection to 
ao purpose, to find out when it was employed 
Igamst you I hate an ungenerous sarcasm, a 
great deal worse than I do the devil ; at least 
<*» Milton describes him ; and though I may be 
radcak.y enough to be sometimes guilty of it my- 
■elf, I cannot endure it in others. You, my , 
konoured friend, who cannot appear in any light, j 



but you are sure of being res^cirx./ifc — yoa ca» 
afford to pass by an occasion to display you 
wit, because you may depend for fame ui\ your 
sense ; or if you choose to be silent, y(»u kno\7 
you can rely on the gratitude of many and the 
esteem of all ; but God help us w ho are wits of 
witlings by profession, if we stand not for fame 
there, we sink unsupporterl ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell 
me of Coila. • I may say to the fair painter 
who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie 
says to Ross the poet, of his Muse Scotia, from 
which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila r 
('Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scots dialect, 
which perhaps you have never seen. ) 

" Ye shak your head, hut o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scotia on hei- legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' huffe in(i flegs, 

Bombiiz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me, poor hizzie.** 



No. LXXV. 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN 

Matichline, 2^st March, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
through a track of melancholy joyless muii1», 
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- 
day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and 
hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favourite 
air. Captain O' Rean, coming at length in my 
head, I tried these words to it. You will see 
that the first part of the tune must be lepeated.f 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but 
as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it 
with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about 
this farming project of mine, that my muse has 
degenerated into the veriest piose- wench that 
ever picked cinders, or fullowed a tinker. When 
I am tairly got into the routine of busim-ss, I 
shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries respecting farming ; at pre- 
sent, the world sits such a load on my mind» 
that it has effaced almost every trace of the 
in me. 



My very best compliments and good wishen 
to Mrs. Cleghorn. 



No. LXXVL 
FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 
Saughton Mills, 27th April, 1 788. 

MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, 

I WAS favoured with your i«ry kind letter of 



♦ A lady was making a picture from the descriptine 
of Coila in the Vision. 

t Here the bard gives the first stanza of the Chev 
lUr'M Lament. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



theSlst nit. and cu-.siiler myself greatly obliged 
lo J on, for your attention in sending me the 
song to my favourite air, Captain O'Kean. 
Ihe words delight me much ; they 6t the tune 
to a hair. I wish you would send me a verse 
or two more ; and if you have no objection, I 
would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose 
it should be sung after the fatal field of Cullo- 
den by the unfortunate Charles : Tenducci per- 
sonates the lovely Mary Stuart in the song 
Queen Mary^s Lamentation. — Why may not 
I sing in the pei-soa of her great-great-great 
grandson ?* 

Any skill 1 have in country business you may 
truly command. Situation, soil, custonjs of 
countries may vary from each other, but Far- 
mer Attention is a good farmer in every place. 
I beg to hear fi-om you soon. Mrs. Cleghoru 
•oins me in best compliments. 

I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the 
irord. /our very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. LXXVII. 
TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

AVON FRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. 

Mauchline, April 28, 1 7fl8. 

Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir ! 
uook on this as the opening of a correspondence 
,ike the opening of a twenty-four gun battery I 

There is no understanding a man properly, 
without knowing something of his previous ideas 
(that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I 
know many who in the animal-muster, pass for 
men, that are the scanty masters of only one 
idea on any given subject, and by far the great- 
est art of your acquaintances and mine can 
bafely boast of ideas, 1.26 — 1.5 — 1.75, or some 
such fractional matter), so to let you a little 
Snto the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
must know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, 
bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, 
to whom I have lately and privately given a ma- 
trlaionial title to my corpus. 

** Bode a robe and wear it," 

Says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to pre- 
sage ill-luck ; and as my giil has been doubly 
kinder to me than even the best of women 
usually are to their partners of our sex, in simi- 
lar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times a 
brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth 
wedding day : these twenty-four will givt me 
twenty- four gossippings, twenty-four christen- 
ings, ( I mean one equal to two), and I hope by 
the blessing of the tiod of ray fathers, to make 



• Our Poet took this advice. See poetry for the 
■Hole of that beauttfuJ aong— the CheTalier"* lAwmt. 



them .Tenty-f)ur dutiful children to tbeir pa- 
rents, twenty- four useful members of societv, 
and twenty-four approven servants of their God ' 

" Light's heartsome," quo' the 

wife when she was stealing sheep. You see 
what a lamp I have hung up to lighten your 
paths, when you are idle enough to exploie ine 
combinations and relations of my ideas 'Tis 
now as plain as a pike-staff, why a twenty-four 
gun battery was a metaphor I could readily 
emjdoy. 

Now for business, — I intend to present Mrs, 
Burns with a printed shawl, an articU of wuieb 
I «lare -^ay you have variety : 'tis my first pre- 
sent to liiT since I have irrevocably called ner 
mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to 
get her the said first present fiofn an old and 
much valued friend of hers and mine, a tru.sty 
Trojan, on whose friendship I count myself 
possessed of a life-rent lease. 



Look on this letter as a " be^nning cf tor- 
rows ;" I'll write you till your eyes ache with 
reading nonsense 

Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private design*.- 
tion^, begs her best compliments to jrou. 



No. LXXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Mauchline, 2Sth April, l'"8» 

Your powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made my heart 
ache with penitential pangs, even though I was 
really not guilty. As I commence farmer at 
Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be 
pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the 
offer of the excise business without solicitation ; 
and as it costs me only six months' attendance 
for instructions, to entitle me to a commission ; 
which commission lies by me, and at any future 
period, on my simple petition, can be resumed ; 
1 thought five and thirty pounds a-yeur was no 
bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if fortune in 
her jade tricks should kick him down from the 
little eminence to which she has lately helped 
him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed be- 
fore Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the 
Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday 
night, to set out on Sunday ; but for som« 
nights preceding 1 had slept in an apartment, 
where the force of the winds and rain was only 
mitigated by being sifted through numberlese 
apertures in the windows, walls, 8»c. In con- 
sequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part 
of Tuesday unable to stir out of l»ed, with eP 
the miaerable effects of a violent cold. 



BQRNS' WORKS. 



Yon '•te, ]\Ji(!;im, the trutn of the French 
niaxiiii, Lc rr li ti'est pas tn/j-iurs It vrai-sem- 
biuhlf ; \niii lasr \v;is so full of expostulation, 
»nd Wiis -oiiK'thiiig so like the language of an 
offended friend, th.it 1 began to tremble for a 
correspondence, whir.h I had with grateful plea- 
iure set down as on* of the greatest enjoyments 
of ray future life. 



Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dry- 
den, and Tasso, were all equal strangers to me ; 
but of this mure at large in my next 



No. LXXIX. 
FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 



I You will oblige me oy presenting my respecti 

i to your host, Mr. Cruikshank, who has given 

I such high approbation to my poor Latinity 

i you may let him know, that as I have likewise 

been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two 

things that I would, if he desirt« it, submit not 

to his judgment, but to his amusement : the 

one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o the Green, 

printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; the other, 

Satrachomyomachia Homeri Latinis versihut 

cum aclditamentisy given in htely to Chalmers, 

to print if he pleases. Mi. C. will know Se- 

via non semper ddectant, mm joca semper^ 

Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. 

I have just room to repeat complunents and 
good wishes from, 

Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



DEAR SIB, Linsnart, 2Sth April, 1788. 

I RECEIVED your last, with the curious pre- 
sent you have favoured nie with, and would 
have made proper acknowledgments before now, 
aut that I have been necessarily engaged in 
matters of a different complexion. And now 
that I have got a little respite, 1 make use of it 
to thank you for this valuable instance of your 
good will, and to assure you that, with the sin- 
cere heart of a true Scotsman, 1 highly esteem 
both the gift and the giver : as a sinall testi- 
mony of which I have herewith sent you for 
your amusement (and in a form which I hope 
you will excuse for saving postage) the two 
*.>ng8 I wrote about to you already. Charming 
Nancy is the real production of genius in a 
ploughman of twenty years of age at the time 
of its appearing, with no more education than 
what he picked up at an old farnier-graiuifa- 
ther's fireside, though now, by the strength of 
natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach- 
field in the neighbourhood. And I doubt nut 
but you vvill find in it a simplicity and delicacy, 
with some turns of humour, that will please 
one nf your taste ; at least it pleased me when 
I first saw it, if that can be any recommenda- 
tion to it. The other is entirely descriptive of 
my own sentiments, and you may make use of 
3ne or both as you shall see good.* 



* CHARMING NAXCY. 

A aONO, BY K BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune — " Humours of Glen." 

Some smg of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause of their pato : 
Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, 

And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 
But my only fancy, is my pretty Nancy, 

In venting my passion, I'll strive to be plain, 
rn ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure 

Bat thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain 

Her bea-ty delights me, ner Kindness invites me. 
Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain : 



No. LXXX. 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART 

SIR, ManchUne, Sd May, 1787. 

I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my baga 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- 
tude have any influence with that great, un- 
known Being, who frames the chain of causes 
and events ; prosperity and happiness will at- 
tend your visit to the Cimtinent, and return yoo 
safe to your native shore. 

Wherevei- I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as 
my privilege, to acquaint you with my progress 
in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could 
say it with truth, that, next to my little fame, 
and the having it in my power to make life 



Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel. 
Consent, my dear Na c-y, and come be my ain : 

Her carriage is comely, her language is homely. 
Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in 'he main: 

She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature. 
My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning. 

Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene, 
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining. 

My charming, sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain? 
The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 

Array'd like the gowans, that prow in yon glen. 
She's well shape(t and slender, true hearted and tendeTj 

My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

rn seek through the nation for some habitation, 

To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rain. 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her aye cheery. 

My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my aiv. 
I'll work at my calling, to furnish thy dwelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; 
Thou shalt not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my am. 

I'll make true affection the constant direction 

Of loving my Nancy while life doth remain; 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lastin§ 

My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, 

To favour another be forward and .'ain, 
I will not compel her, but jilainly I'll tell her, 

Begor* thou false Nancy, thoii'se ne'er be n y am. 

The Old Man's Song, (see o. 135» 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



30? 



moffl comfortable to those whom nature has 
made dear to me, I shall ever regard your coun- 
tenanre, your patronage, your friendly good of- 
fices, as the most valued consequence of my late 
in life. 



No. IXXXT. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTKR 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Mauchline, Mi May, 1788. 

Drypen's Viryil has delighted me. I do 
■ot know whether the critics will agree with 
ine, but the Georgics are to me by far the best 
of Virgil. \\ "s indeed a species of writing en- 
tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with 
a thousand fancies of emulation ; but, alas I 
when I read tht Georgics, and then survey my 
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland 
poney, drawn I'p by tlie side of a thorough-bred 
hunter, to start for the p?ate. I own I am dis- 
appointed in the ^neid. Faultless correct- 
ness may please, and does highly please the let- 
tered critic ; but to that awful character I have 
not the most distant pretensions. I do not 
know whether I do not hazard my pretensions 
to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I 
think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier 
of Homer. If i had the Odyssey by me, I 
could parallel many passages where Virgil has 
evidently copied, l)ut by no means improved 
Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing of 
this owing to the translatois ; for, iiom every 
thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in 
genius and fluency of language. Pope's master. 
I have u(»t perused Tasso enough to form an 
opinion : in some future letter, you shall have 
my ideas of him ; though I am conscious my 
criticisms must be very inaccurate and imper- 
fect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my 
«raDt of learning most. 



No. LXXXII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Mauchline^ May 26, 1788. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

1 AM two kind letters in your debt, but I 
have been from home, and horridly busy buying 
and preparing for my farming business ; over 
and above the plague of my Excise instructions, 
which this week will finish. 

Ah I flatter my wishes that I foresee many 
future years' correspondence between us, 'tis 
foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles -. a dull 
letter may be a very kind one. I have the plea- 
tore to tell you tK"* I have b"en extremely for- 



tunate in all my buyings and bargainings hither* 
to ; Mrs. Burns not excepted j which title I 
now avow to the world. 1 am truly pleased 
with this last affair : it has indet^d mu\. d tn my 
anxieties for futurity, but it h is :•. \ imi ■. <\.a i 't 
to my mind and resolutions, imiKikh.; c,.t(. 
and the poor girl has the most sacred enfh^ \ isrn 
of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to 
gratify my every idea of her deportment. 
I am interrupted. 

Farewell ! my aear Sir 



N;» LXXXIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

MADAM, 97M M'ly, 1788. 

I HAVE been torturing my philosophy to co 
purpose, to account for that kind partiality of 
yours, which, unlike ........ 

, has followed me in my 

return to the shade of life, with assiduous be- 
nevolence. Often did 1 regret in the fleeting 
hours of my late will o'-wisp appearance, that 
" here I had no continuing city ;" and but for 
the consolation of a few solid guineas, could 
almost lament the time that a momentary ac- 
quaintance with wealth and splendour put me 
so much out of conceit with the sworn com- 
panions of my road through life, insignificance, 
and poverty. 



There are few circumstances relating to the 
unequal distribution of the good things of this 
life, that give me more vexation (I mean in 
what 1 see around me) than the importance the 
opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, 
compared with the very same things on the con- 
tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had 
the honour to spend an hour or two at a good 
woman's fireside, where the planks that com- 
posed the floor were decorated with a splendid 
(rarpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver 
and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there 
has been a revolution among those creatures, 
who, though in appearance partakers, and 
equally noble partakers of the same n.ituie with 
madanie ; are from time to time, their nerves, 
their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, 
experience, genius, time, nay, a good part of 
their very thoughts, sold for months and years, 



not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but 
the caprices of the important few. * We talked 
of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwith- 
standing their general stupidity and rascality 
did some of the poor devils the honour to com- 



» ServanU in Scotland are hired from term t« *ria. 
i. t. from WhiUundav to Martinmas. Jm. 



308 



BURNS* WORKS. 



mend tliem. But light be the turf upon ' is 
breast, who taught " Reverence thyself." We 
ooked down on the upolished wretches, their 
mpertinent wives and douterly brats, as the 
ordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, 
whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care- 
lessneKs of his ramble, or tosses in air in the 
▼antonness of his pride. 



No. LXXXIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

(at MR. DUNLOP's, HADDINGTON.) 

Ellisland, VSth June, 1788. 
" Where'er T roam, whatever realms I see. 
My heart, untraveli'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain. 
And drags at eadi remove a lengthen'd chain." 

GOLDSMITH. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
that 1 have been on my farm. A solitary in- 
mate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every 
object I love, or by whom I am loved ; nor any 
acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jen- 
ny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while un- 
couth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my 
awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul 
in the hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- 
jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensi- 
bility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy 
side by a series of misfortunes and disappoint- 
ments, at that period of my existence when the 
Boul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage 
of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this 
unhappy frame of mind. 

'• The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 



Your surmise, Madam, is just : 
% husband. 



am indeed 



I found a once much- loved and still, mach 
lOVed female, literally and truly cast out to the 
mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled 
her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no 
sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or 
misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
fif disposition . a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health 
and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best 
advytitage, by a more than common handsome 
Sgure ; these, i think, in a woman, may make 



a good wife, though she shou'd never have read 
a page, but the Scriptures of the Old and Net* 
Testament, nor have danced in a brighter as 
sembly than a penny pay-weddii^. 



No. LXXXV. 
TO MR. P. HILL. 

MT DEAR HILL, 

! SHALL say nothing at all to your mad pre- 
sent — you have so long and often been of ina« 
portant service to me, and I suppose you mean 
to go on conferring obligations until I shall not 
be able to lift up my face before you. In the 
meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it 
happened to be a cold day in which he made 
his will, ordered his servants great coats for 
mourning, so, because I have been this week 
plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by 
the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cessful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the 
proud man's wine so offends my ))alate, that it 
chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilis'd, 
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my 
nostril that my stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience ^d 
a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no 
niggard of your good things among your friends, 
and some of them are in much need of a slice. 
There in my eye is oui friend Smellie, a man po- 
sitively of the first abilities and greatest strength 
of mind, as well as one of the b»«st hearts and 
keenest wits that I have ever met with : when 
you see him, as, alas ! he too is smarting at tb* 
pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravatea 
by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a bit of 
my cheese alone will not cure him, but if yofi 
add a tankard of brown stout, and superaild a 
magnum of right Oporto, you will see his sor- 
rows vanish like the morning mist before the 
summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my only 

brother, that I have on earth, and one of the 
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese 
would help to rid him of some of his supera- 
bundant modesty, you would do well to give it 
him. 

David • with his Courant comes, tc >, across 
my recollection, and I beg you will help him 

* Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Counuit. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



80<. 



ATgely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to ena- 
ble him to digest those bedaubing para- 
graphs with which he is eternally larding the 
lean characters of certain great men in a certain 
^reat town. I grant you the periods are very 
well turned : so, a fresh egg is a very good 
I'mng ; but when thrown at a man in a pillory 
it does not at all improve his figure, not to men- 
rion the irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend, D r, I would wish 

also to be a partaker ; not to digest his spleen, 
for that he laughs ofF, but to digest his last 
night's wine at the last field-day of the Croch- 
allan corps. * 

Among our common friends I must not for- 
get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. 
The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a 
world unworthy of having such a fellow as he 
is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if 
you can help him to any thing that will make 
him a little easier on that score, it will be very 
obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a 

contented happy man that I know not what can 
annoy him, except perhaps he may not have got 
the better of a parcel of modest anecdotes which 
a certain poet gave him one night at supper, 
the last time the said poet w;is in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of 
law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- 
fessedly — the Faculty are beyond my prescrip- 
tion. As to their clients, that is another thing; 
God knows they have much to digest ! 

The ciergv I piss by ; their profundity of 
erudition, and their liberality of sentiment ; 
their total want of pride, and their detestation 
of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to 
place them far, far above either my praise or 
censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, 
whom I have the honour to call friend, the 
Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to 
the landlord of the King's arms inn here, to 
have, at the next county-meeting, a large ewe- 
milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the 
Dumfriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest 
the Duke of Queensberry's late political con- 
duct. 
I I have just this moment an opportunity of a 

private hand to Edinl)urgh, as perhaps you would 
not digest double postage. 



No. LXXXVl. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Eilisland, June 1 4, 1788. 
This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, 
that 1 have sojourned in these region*! ; and du- 
ring these three days you liave occupied more 
•f my thoughts tliao in three weeks preceding : 

* A dub (^ otxoux spirits. 



In Ayrshire I have several varifitiuns of friend- 
ship's compass, here it points invariably to the 
pole. — My farm gives me a goo<i many uncouth 
cares and anxieties, but I hate the language o. 
complaint. Job, or some one of his tiiewds, 
says well; — " Why should a living m;ui coiis- 
plain ?" 

I have lately been much mortified with fon- 
templating an unlucky imperfection in the very 
framing and construction of my soul ; namely, 
a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs 
in hitting the scect of craft or design in my 
fellow creatures. I do not mean any compli- 
ment to my ingenuousness, or to hint ihut the 
defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious sim- 
plicity of conscious truth and .honour : I take it 
to be, in some way or other, an imperfection in 
the mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some 
modification of dulness. In two or three smal 
instances lately, I have been most shamefully 
out. 

I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare of 
life, been bred to arms among the light-horse — 
the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars 
and highlauders of the brain ; but I am firmly 
resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions, who 
have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, oi 
of a siege but storming the town. Cost what it 
will, I am determined to buy in among the grave 
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artil- 
lery corp-* of plodding contrivance. 

What hooks are you reading, or what is the 
subject of your thoughts, besides the great stu- 
dies of your profession ? Yuu said something 
, bout religion in your last. I don't exactly re- 
memher what it was, as the letter is in Ayr- 
shire ; but I thought it not only prettily said, 
but nobly thought. You will make a noble fel- 
low if once you were married. I make no re- 
servation of your being tt;e//-married : You have 
so much se; se, and knowledge of human nature, 
that though you muy not realize perhaps the 
ideas of romance, yet you will never be j7/-»iar« 
ried. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish si- 
tuation respecting provision for a family of ■chil- 
dren, I am decidedly of opinion that the step I 
have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, 
I look to the excise scheme as a certainty ot 
maintenance ; a maintenance, luxury to waat 
either Mrs. Burns or I were born to. 

4.4ieu. 



No. LXXXVII. 

TO MR. MORISON,* Waiairr, 
Mauchline. 

Eilislt^, June 22. 1788. 

MV DEAR. SIR, 

Nkckssity obliges vat to go into my nevv 



• This letter refers to f/iair» and ot/ter articles oi 
furniture wluub the Poet tiad < rderecL 



SIO 



BURMS* WORKS. 



house, even before it bo pUstered. I will inba- 
Dit tbe one end until the ot'i'.er is finished. About 
three weeks more, T think, will at farthest, be 
my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this 
present house. If ever you wished to deserve 
the blessing of him that was ready to perish ; if 
ever you were in a situation that a little kind- 
ness would have rescued you from many evils ; 
if ever you hope to find rest in future states of 
antried being ; — get these matters of mine rea- 
dy. My servant will be out in the beginning of 
next week for the clock. My compliments to 
Mrs. Morison. 

I am, after all my tribulation, 

Dear Sir, yours. 



No. LXXXVIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIR 

Ellhland, June 30, 1788. 

Ml DEAR SIR, 

I JUST now received your brief epistle ; and 
to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you 
see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and 
have begun at the top of the page, intending to 
scribble on to the very last corner. 

I am vext at that affair of the . . ., but 
dare not enlarge on the subject until you send 
me your direction, as I suppose that will be al- 
seied on your late master and friend's death. I 
am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I 
fear it may be to your disadvantage in any re- 
spect — for an old man's dying, except he have 
been a very benevolent character, or in some '\ 
particular situation of life, that the welfare of 
the poor or the helfiless depended on him, I 
think it an event of the most trifling moment to 
the world. Man is naturally a kind benevolent : 
animal, but he is dropt into such a needy situa- , 
tion here in this vexatious world, and has such j 
a whoreson, hungry, growling, multiplying puck 
of necessities, apjietites, passions, and desires : 
auo^L nim, ready to devour him for want of 
other food ; that \n fact he must lay aside his 
cares for others, that he may look properly to 
himself. You have been imposed upon in pay- 
ing Mr. M for the profile of a Mr. H. 1 

uid not mention it in my letter to you, nor did 

I ever give Mr. M any such onier. I have 

no objection to lose the money, but I will not\ 
have any such profile in my possession. 

I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I ! 
mentioned onlr 15s. to him, I will rather in- i 
close you a guinea note. I have it not iadeed ' 
to spare here, as I ani only a sojourner in a 
Btrange land iri this place ; but in a day or two , 
1 return to Mauchlinc, and there I hwe the ! 
bank notes through the house, like salt permits. ' 

There is a great degree of folly in talking un- ! 
necessarily of one's piivate affairs. I have just 
ttow been interrupted by one uf my new neigh- j 



hours, who has made himself absoluteTy cob 
temptible in my eyes, by his silly, garrulout 
pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my 
own too ; but from this moment I abjure it as 1 
would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend- 
thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, 
forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence, but 
'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his raga. 
Still, imprudence respecting monej matters, ia 
much more pardonable than imprudence respect- 
ing character. I have no objection to prefer 
prodigality to avarice, in some few instances ; 
but I appeal to your observation, if you hav» 
not met, and often met, with the same littlt di»r 
ingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insin 
cerity, and disiotegritive depravity of principle, 
in the hackney 'd victims of profusion, as in the 
unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every 
possible reverence for the much -talked-of world 
beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety 
believes and virtue deserves, may be all matter 
of fact — But in things belonging to and termi- 
nating in this present scene of existence, man 
has serious and interesting business on tand. 
Whether a man shall shake hands with wel 
come in the distinguished elevation of respect, 
or shrink from contempt in the abject corner ol 
insignificance ; whether he shall wanton under 
the tro|»ic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the 
comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or 
starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; 
whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness 
of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a gall- 
ing load of regrec and remorse — these are alter- 
natives of the last moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occasion- 
ally to sermonize too ; 1 wish you would ia 
charity, favour me with a sheet fjll in your own 
way. I admire the close of a letter Lord Bo- 
lingbroke writes to Dean Swift, " Adieu, dear 
Swift ! with all thy faults I love thee entirely : 
make an effort to love me with all mine!' 
Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is now 
such a prostituted business^ that honest friend- 
ship, in her sincere way, must have recourse t« 
her primitive, simple, — farewell ! 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, 
Merchant, Glasgow. 

MY DEAR SIR, MauchUne, July 18, 1788. 

I AM just going 'or Nithsdale, else I would 
certainly have transcribed some of my rhyming 
things for you. The Miss Bailies 1 have seen 
in Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works, 
Lord God Almighty ! Who would not praise 
Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the 
sons of men !" It needed not your fine taste to 
admire ♦^bem. I dec'are, one day I had the 
honour of dining at Mr. Bailie's, I was almost 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



31 



m the predicament of the children of Israel^ 
when they could not look on Moses's face for 
the glory that shone in it when he descended 
from Mount Sinai. 

I did once write a poetic address from the 
falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when I 
Was in the Highlands. When you return to 
Scotland let me know, and I will send such of 
my pieces as please myself best. 

I return to Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Purden. I am in 
truth, but at present in haste, 

Yours sincerely. 



No. XC. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 2d Aug. 1788. 

UONOUR.ED MADAM, 

Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, 
to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with 
you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- 
ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for 
the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in 
a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, 
am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have 
little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- 
sides, I am now very busy on my farm, build- 
ing a dwelling-house ; as at present I am al- 
most an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have 
scarce " where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears in my eyes. " The heart know- 
eth its own sorrows, and a stranger intenued- 
dleth not therewith." The repository of these 
*• sorrows of the heart," is a kind of sanctum 
sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and 
that too at particular, sacred times, who dares 
enter into them. 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake 
of the author. Instead of entering on this sub- 
ject farther, I shall transcribe you a tew lines I 
wrote m a hermitage belonging to a gentleman 
in my Nithsdale neighbourhood- They are al- 
most the only favours the muse has conferred 
•:i me in that country. 

( Tlie lines on Friar Carse hermitage, be- 
fitting 

Thou wh)m chance may hither lead.) 

Since I am in the way of truiscribing, the 



following were the production of yesterday as 
I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- 
nock. T intended inserting them, or something 
like them, in an epistie I am going to write to 
the gentleman on whose friendship my excise 
hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fii.try ; one oi 
the worthiest and most accomplished gentle- 
men, not only of this country, but I will dare 
to say it, of this age. The following are just 
the first crude thoughts " unhousel'd, unaa- 
ointed, unanell'd." 



Pity the tuneful muses* helpless train ; 

Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 

The world were blest, did bless on them de- 
pend ; 

Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 
friend !" 

The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 

Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 
boon. 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 

Who life aiid wisdom at one race begun ; 

Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 

Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! 

Who make poor will do wait upon I shoula i 

We own they're prudent, but who feels they'ie 
good? 

Ye wise one's, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy I 
But come 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I 
never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling nie that he is unfortunate. I 
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. 
I have just room for an old Roman farewell! 



No. XCI. 
TO THE SAME. 

Mauchline, \Oth August, 1796 

MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours of the 24.th June is before me. I 
found it, as well as another valued friend — wy 
wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshix-e : I 
met both with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you. Madam, I do not sit down 
to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing 
every sjntiment, like the faithful couunons oj 
Great Britain in parliament assembled, answer- 
ing a speech from the best of kings ! 1 express 
myself in the fulness of my heart, and may per- 
haps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind 
inquiries ; but not from your very odd reason 
that I do not read your letters. Ali your epi>tle« 
for several mouths have cost me nothing, e7 



wpt a swelling throb of gratitude> or 
felt sentioient of vpneration. 

iVIrs. Burus, Madam, is the ideotical woman 



BURNS' WORKS. 



deep- 



Wlien she first found herself *' as women wish 
to be wlio love their lonU ;" as I loved her 
nearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- 
vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and 
not only forbade me her company and their 
house, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- 
age, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should 
find security in my about-to-be paternal rela- 
tion. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. 
On my eclatant return to iSIauchline, I was 
made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual 
consequences began to betray her ; and as 1 was 
at that time laid up a crippu; in Edinburgh, 
she was turned, literally turned out of doors, 
anil I wrote to a friend to shelter her, till my 
return, when our marriage was declared. Her 
happiness or misery was in my hands, and who 
ould trille with such a deposit ? 



I can eiisily fancy a more agreeable compa- 
iiion for my journey of life, but, upon my ho- 
nour, I Lave never seen the individual instance. 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female pavtner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, &c. without probably entail- 
ing on me, at the same time, expensive living, 
fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with 
all the other blessed boarding-school acjjuire- 
nients, which ( pardonnez nun, Madame) are 
Botnetimes to be found among females of the up- 
per ranks, but almost universally pervade the 
misses ol the would-be-gentry. 



I like your way in your church-yard lucu- 
brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous 
result of accidental situations, either respecting 
heiflth, place, or company, have often a strength, 
and always an originali'ty, that would in vain 
be looked for in fancied circumstances and stu- 
died paragraphs. For me, 1 have often thought 
of keeping a letter, t7i progression, by me, to 
senii you when the sheet was written out. Now 
I talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for 
writing to you on paper of this kind, is my pru- 
riency of writing to you at large. A page of 
post is on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, 
that I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at 
least in wy miHcelianeuus reverie manner, are a, 
Ciuiistruiu Im in a close correspoadeuee. 



No. xcn. 



TO THE SAME. 



ElUsland, I6th August, 1788. 
I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured frien^ 
so send you an elegiac epistle ; and want onlji 
genius to make it quite Shenstonian. 

** Why droops my heart with fancied woes for- 
lorn ? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky ?" 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, sti ange 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity— consciousness of my own inability 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children :— 
I could indulge those reflections, till my humour 
should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, that 
would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have 
sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon 
my soul I always find that the most sovereign 
balm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for 

the first time. My reception was quite to my 
mind ; from the lady of the house quite flatter- 
ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet oi two, 
impromptu. She repeated one or two to the 
admiration of all present. JNIy suffrage as a 
professional man was expected • I for once went 
agonizing over the belly of my conscience. Par- 
don me, ye, my adored household gods. Inde- 
pendence of Spirit, and Integrity of Sou! ! In 
the course of conversation, J^msons Musical 
Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with the 
music, was talked of. We got a song on the 
harpsichord, beginning, 

" Raving winds around her blowing." 

The air was much admired : the lady of tht 
house asked me whose were the words — " Mine, 
Madam — they are indeed my very best verses :** 
she took not the smallest notice of them ! The 
old Scottish proverb says, wel), " king's caff u| 
better than ither folks' corn." I was going to 
make a New Testament quotation about " cast- 
ing pearls ;" but that would be too virulent^ 
for thti iady is actually a woman of sense and 
taste. 



After all that has been said on the other side 
of the question, man is by no means a hapuy 
creature. I do not speak of the selected few, 
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tun- 
ed to glad ne.ss amid riches and honours, and pru- 
dence and wisdom — I speak of the neglected 
many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose dayi 
are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had nevei" seen it, I wouU 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



31& 



transcnbe fo • you a stanza of an old Scottish 
fcallad. called The Life and Age of Man, be- 
gianing thu», 

** 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings testifie." 

1 had an old grand- uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long blind 
ere he died, during which time, his highest en- 
joyment was to sit down and cry, while my mo- 
ther wou.'d sini)^ the simple old song of The life 
and Age of Man. 

It is this way of thinking — it is those melan- 
choly truths, that make religion so precious to 
the poor, miserable children of men — If it is a 
mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima- 
gination of enthusiasm, 

" What truth on earth so precious as the lie '" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a lit- 
tle sceptical, but the necessities of my heart al- 
ways give the cold philosophizmgs the lie. 
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- 
ence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- 
tion and devout thanksj^iving, constant, as the 
vicissitudes of even and m(H-n ; who thinks to 
meet with these in the couit, tlie pilace, in the 
glare o^ public life? No : to fiii-l them in their 
precious importance and divine efficacy, we must 
Bearch among the obs^cuie recesses of disappoint- 
ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am f^ure, dear Madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the length of my letters. I 
leturn to Ayrshire, middle of next week : and 
jt quickens my pace to think that there will lie 
a letter from you waiting me there. I must be 
here again very boou for ray harvjjst. 



No. XCIII. 



ro R, GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, Esq. 



W.1EK I had the honour of being introduced 
ko you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon 
tf asking a favour of you. When Loar, in 
6hak!»peare, asks old Kent, why he wished to 
be in his service, lie answers, " Because you 
have t'nat in your face which I could like to 
call master." For some such rea.son. Sir, do I 
now solicit your [latronage. You know, I dare 
My, of an application I lately made to your 
Board to be admitted an officer of excise. I 
have, according to form, been examined by a 
-vpervixor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, 
with a reuuettt fur an order fur iubtructioo* In 



this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall buft 
too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety 
of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention 
as an officer, I dare eugage for : but with any 
thing like business, except manual labour, I am 
total ly unacquainted. 



I had intended to have closed my late ap- 
pearance on the stage of life, in the character 
of a couBtry farmer ; but after discharging 
some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could 
only fight for existence in that miserable man- 
ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera- 
ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence death, 
the poor man's last and often best friend, rescu- 
ed him. 

I know, Sir, that to need your goodness is to 
have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg your 
patronage to forward me in this affiir, till I be 
appointed to a division, where, by the help o{ 
rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- 
pendence so dear to my soul, but which has 
been too often so distant from my situation. 



When nature her great master-piece designed. 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man- 
Then first she calls the -useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth; 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. 
And all mechanics' mmy aproned kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material, for mere knights and squires . 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks th* unyielding mass witli grave de* 

signs. 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th* Aurora of the poles. 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature well pleased pronounced it very good j 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis futuus matter; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter 5 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow. 
When bless'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 
Adnired and praised — and there the homa, 
ends : 



S14 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Vet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy f ach pleasure riches give, 
Yet ha^ly wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the piopless cliinher of mankind, 
She cast ahout a standard tree to find ; 
And to support his helpless woodhine state, 
Attach 'd him to the generous truly great. 
A title, and the only one T claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Gra- 
ham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff. 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's bard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were bless'd, did bless on them de- 
pend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race beguu, 
Who feel by reason, and who fjive by rule, 
(Instinct 8 a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon / should— 
We own they're piudent, but who feels their 

good ? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etcli'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godliiie pleasure know. 
Ilea lien's attribute distiuguish'd — to bestow ! 
Whiise irms of love would grasp the human race: 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid. 
Backward, abash 'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! 
Whose verse iu manhoort's pride sub imely flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit, 
Sears on the spurning wing of injured merit! 
Seek not the proofs iu private lite to find; 
Pity, the best of words, should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lai k-shrill song ascends, 
But grovelling on the earth tiie carol ends. 
In all the cLirn'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with sliameless front ; 
Oblige them, patrouise tlieir tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation 8t»in, 
My horny fist a.s8ume the plough again ; 
The pie-ball'd jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen pence a^week I've lived before. 



Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even tliat ItM 

shift, 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift r 
That placed by thee, upon the wish'd-for hftight. 
Where, man and nature finer in her sight. 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublima 

flight.* 



No. XCIV. 
TO MR. BEUGO, Engraver, EmNBURGB. 

MY DEAR SIR, EUislnnrl, Sept. 9, 1788. 

There is not in Edinburgh above the nuni' 
ber of the graces who-e letters would have givea 
me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, 
which only reached me yesternights 

I am here on my farm, busy with my har- 
vest ; but for all that most pleasurable part o{ 
life called social communication, I am here 
at the very elbow of existence. The only things 
that are to be found in this country in any de- 
gree of perfection, are stui)idity and canting. 
Prose, they only know in graces, prayers, &c 
and the value of these they estimate as they do 
their plaiding webs — by the ell ! As for the 
muses, they have as much an id»ia of a rhino- 
ceros as of a poet. For my old capriciou 
good-natured hussy of a muse — 

By banks of Nith I sat and wept 

When Coila 1 thought on. 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 

The willow trees upon. 

I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
with my '* darling Jean," and then I, at lucid 
intervals, throw my horny fist across my be- 
cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as 
an old wife throws her hand across the spokes 
of her spinning wheel. 

I well send you '* The Fortunate Shepherd 
ess" as soon as 1 return to Ayrshire, for there 
I keep it with other precious treasure. I snatt 
send it by a careful hand, as I would not for 
any thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do 
not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or 
other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a sel- 
fish gratification of ray owa feelings whenever 
I think of you. 



If your better functions would give you lei- 
sure to write me I should be extremely happy ; 
that is to say, if you neither keep noi look for a 

• This is our poet's first epistle to Graham of Fin- 
try. It is not equal to the second, but it cor.lains too 
much of the characteristic vigour of its author .o be 
suppressed. A little more knowledge of natural histo 
ry or (rf chemistry was wnnied to enab'e bim to *> a 
cute th9 orieinal conceDtion eorrectlv 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



Hli 



te^iliT correspondence. I hate the idea of being 
Miged to write a letter. I sometimes write a 
^iend twice a week, at other times ouce a 
quarter. 

I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in 
making the aiirhor you mention place a map of 
Iceland instead of his portrait before his works : 
Twas a glorious idea. 

Could you conveniently do me one thing — 
Whenever you finish any head I could like to 
have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a 
long story about your fine genius ; but as what 
every body knows cannot have escaped you, I 
shall not say one syllable about it. 



No. XCV. 

TO MISS CHALMERS, Edinburgh. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 1788. 
Where are you ? and hovv are you ? and is 
Lady M'Kenzie recovering her health ? for I 
have had but one solitary letter from you. I 
will not think you have forgot me. Madam ; 
and for my part — 

" When thee Jerusalem I forget. 
Skill part from my right hand!" 



" My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul 
careless as that sea " I do not make my pro- 
gress anionp mankind as a bowl does among its 

fellows — rolling through the crowd without ( taught to expect, but I believe, 
bearing away any mark or impression, except 
where they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven ia with my harvest-folks 
by bad weather ; and as ycu and your sister 
once did nie the honour of interesting yourselves 
much a Ceyard de moi, I sit down to beg the 
continuation of your goodness. — I can truly say 
that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw 
two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings 
of my soul — I will not say, more, but, so much 
as Lady M'Kenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I 
think of you — hearts the best, minds the noblest, 
of human kind — un'brtunate, even in the shades 
of life — when I think I have met with you, and 
ha/e lived more of real life with you in eight 
days, than I can do with almost any body I meet 
with in eight years — when I think on the im* 
probability of meeting you in this world again 
— I could sit down and cry like a child! — If] same nobleness of soul 



able phrase, are indeed but lighter and deepei 
shades of villaI;4t. 

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I 
married " my Jean.** Ihis was not in conse- 
quence of the attachment of romancx' perhaps ; 
but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- 
ture's happiness or misery in my determination, 
and I durst not trifle with so important a depo- 
sit. Nor have I any cause to repent it If I 
have not got polite tattle, moilish manners, and 
fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgust- 
ed with the multiform curse of boarding-school 
affectation ; and I have got the handsomest fi- 
gure, the sweetest temper, the soundest consti- 
tution, and the kindest heart in the county. 
Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that 
I am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honntte hornme 
in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in 
her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and 
New Testament, and the Psalms of David in 
metre, spent five minutes together on either 
prose or verse. I must except also from this 
lust, a certain late publication of Scots poems, 
which she has perused very devoutly ; and all 
the ballads in the country, as she has (O the 
partial lover I you will cry) the finest " wood- 
note wild" I ever heard. — I am the more parti- 
cular in this lady's character, as I know she 
will henceforth have the honour of a share in 
your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as 
I am building my house ; for this hovel that I 
shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to 
every blast that blows, and every shower that 
falls ; and I am only preserved from being chill- 
ed to death, by being suffocated with smoke. 1 
do not find my farm that pennyworth I was 
n time, it may 
be a saving bargain. You will be pleased to 
hear that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind 
every day after ray reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at 
any time going dovvn, in a losing bargain of a 
farm, to misery, I have taken my excise instruc- 
tions, and have my commission in my pocket 
for any emergency of fortune. If I could set all 
before your view, whatever disrespect you in 
common with the world, have for this business, 
I know you would approve of my iiiea. 

I will make no apology, dear Madam, for thi» 
egotistic detail : I know you and your sister 
will be interested in every circum>tance of it. 
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, 
or the ideal trumpery of greatness, Wnen fel- 
low partakers of the same nature fear the sam« 
God, have the same benevolence of heart, the 



the same detestation at 
ever you honoured me with a place in your I every thing dishonest, and the same storn < 
esteem, I trust I can low plead more desirt. — .every thing unworthy — if they are not in tne 
I am secure ag.iin>t that cru>hmg grip of iron dependance of absolute beggary, in the name of 
poverty, which, alas! is less or more fatal to the couunon sense are they not equals? And if 
native worth and purity of, I fear, the nohlett , the bias, the instinctive bias of their souls run 
■ouls ; and a late, important step in my life has! the same way, why may they not be friends? 
kindly taken me out of the way of those un- When I may have an opportunity of sending 
grateful iniquities, which, however overlooked you this. Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, 
io fa&hi/'iciable license, or varnished in iashiun- j *' When one is confined idle within doors b/ bad 



Slo 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Weather, the best antidote against ennui is, to 
read the letters of, or write to one's friends ;" 
in that case then, if the weather continues thus, 
I may scrawl you half a quire. 

I very lately, to wit, since harvest began, 
wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the man- 
ner of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only a short 
essay, just to try the strength of my Muse's pi- 
pion in thi^t way. I will send you a copy of it, 
Wnen once I have heard from you. I have like- 
wise been laying the foundation of some pretty 
laroe poetic works : how the superstructure 
will come on I leave to that great maker and 
marrer of projects — time. Johnson's collection 
of Scots songs is going on in the third volume ; 
and of consequence finds me a consumpt for a 
great deal of idle metre. — One of the m^^st to- 
lerable things I have done in that way, is, two 
stanzas that I made to an air, a musical gentle 
man * of my acquaintance composed for the ai- 
niversary of his wedding-day, which happens on 
the seventh of November. Take it as follows : 



The day returns — my bosom burns, 
The blissful day we twa did meet, &c. 



-P. »0. 



I shall give over this letter for shame. If I 
should \w seized with a scribbling fit, before this 
goes away, I shall make it another letter ; anc' 
then you may allow your patience a week's re- 
spite between the two. I have not room for 
more than the old, kind, hearty, farewell ! 

To make some amends, mes cheres Mesdames, 
tor dragging you on to this second sheet ; and to 
relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied 
and uncorrectible prose, I shall transcribe you 
Bome of my late poetic bagatelles ; though I have, 
these eight or ten months, done very little that 
way. One day, in an hermitage on the banks 
of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my ne'rgh- 
bourl lod, who is so good as give me a key at 
pleasure, I wrote as follows ; supposing myself 
the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the 
lonely mansion. 

^Line» written in Friar's Carse Hermitage. \) 



than once ; but scarcely ever with more jiiesr 
sure than when I received yours of the !2th in. 
stant. To make myself understood ; I had 
wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem ad- 
dressed to him, and the same post which fa- 
voured me with yours, brought me an answei 
from him. It was dated the very day he had 
received mine ; and I am quite at a loss to sav 
whether it was most polite or kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactiessi 
are truly the work of a friend. They are not 
the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- 
nient of cold impartiality, balancing with un- 
feeling exactitude, the pro and con of an au- 
thor's merits ; the.y aie the judicious observa- 
tions of animated friendship, selecting the beau- 
ties of the piece. I have just arrived from 
Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was 
on horseback this morning by three o'clock ; 
for between my wife and my f u m is just forty- 
six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, I was 
taken with a poetic fit, as follows : 

«' Mrs. F of C 's lamentation for tht 

death of her son ; an uncommonly promising 
youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age. " 

. ( Here follow the verses, entitled, " A Mo- 
ver's Lament for the Loss of her Son.") 

You will not send me your poetic rambles, 
b \t, you see, I am no nigi^ard of mine. I am 
S'lre your impromptu's give me double plea- 
sure ; what falls from your pen, can neither be 
unrn'^eitaining in itself, nor indifferent to me. 

Ihe one fault you found, is just ; but I can- 
not p!ease myself in an emendation. 

\VhiLt a life of solicitude is the life of a pa- 
rent ! Vou interested me much in your young 
couple. 

I wouM net take my folio paper for this 
epistle, and co\r I repent it. I am so jaded 
with my dii-ty long journey that I was afraid to 
drawl into the essence of dulness with any thing 
larger than a quai to^ and so I must leave out 
another rhyme of thir n'orning's "xiirnufacture. 

I will pay the s^pientipot^n* Oe^rfe mo»> 
cheerfully, to hear fvom you ere 1 kare Ays 
shire. 



No. XCVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 27ih Sept. 1788. 
I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more 



• Captain Ruidel of Glenridde*. 

t The poetic temnerament is rver predisposed to 
lensations of the " horrible and uwful." Burns, in 
Teturiiiiig from his visits at Glenriddel to hi iarm at 
Ellisland, had to pass through a little wild wood in 
which stood the Hernnitatje. When the night was 
dark and dreary it was his custom generally to solicit 
>n ad<iitioiial parting glass to fortify his spiriu and 
keep up his courage. This was related by a lady, a 
near rel ition of Captain Riddel's, who had frequent 
opportunities of seeing this salutary practice exempli- 
fied. 



No. XCVII. 



TO MR. P. HILL. 

Mauthline, \st October, 17S3. 
I HAVE been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time my chief reading haii 
been the " Address to Loch Lomond," you 
were so obliging as to send to me. Were I im^ 
pannelled one of the author's jury, to determine 
his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my 
1 verdict should be " guilty ! A poet of Nature's 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



317 



waking !'* it is an excellent method for im- 
provement, and what I believe every poet does, 
to place some favourite classic autlior, in his 
own walks of study and composition, before him, 
as a model. Though your author had not men- 
tioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, 
guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my 
brotlier poet forgive me, if I venture to hint, 
that his imitation of that immortal bard, is in 
two or three places rather more servile than 
uch a genius as his required, — e. g. 

To soothe the madding passions all to peace, 

ADDRESS. 

To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, 

THOMSON. 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal 
to the Sedsons. Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into nature for himself: you meet with 
no copied description. One particular criti- 
cism I made at first reading : in no one instance 
has he said too much. He never flags in his 
progress, but like a true poet of Nature's mak 
ing, kindles in his course. His beginning is 
simple, and modest, as if distrustful of the 
strength of his pinion ; only, I do not altoge 
ther like 

" Truth, 

The soul of every song that's nobly great.'* 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is no- 
bly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may be 
but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 
7, page 6, " Great lake," too much vulgarized 
by every-day language, for so sublime a poem ? 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of 
a comparison with other lakes, is at once har- 
monious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must 
sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows mountains blue — 
the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the 
irooded isles — the digres>ion on the yew-tree — 
" Ben Lomond's loity cloud-enveloped head," 
Ice. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject 
which has been often tried, yet our poet, in his 
grand picture, has nterjected a circumstance, so 
far as I know, entirely original : 

" The gloom 
Deep seam'd witt frequent streaks of moving 
fire." 

In his preface to the storm, " the glens how 
lark between," is noble lighland landscape ! 
The " lain plowing the red mould," too, is 
beautifully fancied- Ben Lomond's *' V)fty, 



pathless top,** is a good expression ; and the 
surrounding view from it is truly great ; the 

" Silver mist, 
Beneath the beaming sua,' 

is well described ; and here, he has contrived t« 
enliven his poem with a little of that passion 
which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modem 
muses altogether. I know not how far this epi- 
sode is a beauty upon the whole, but the swain's 
wish to carry *' somtt faint idea of the vision 
bright," to entertain her " partial listening ear," 
is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, the 
most beautiful passages in the whole poem, are 
the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch 
Lomond's " hospitable flood ;" their wheeling 
round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. and 
the glorious description of the sportsman. This 
last is equal to any thing in the Seasons. The 
idea of " the floating tribes distant seem, far 
glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he 
is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic 
genius. " The howling winds," the " hideous 
roar" of " the white cascades," are all in the 
same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth, 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
however, mention, that the last verse of the six- 
teen ih page is one of the most elegant compli- 
ments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice 
that beautiful paragraph, beginning, '< The 
gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the 
particular beauties of the two last paragraphs, 
but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I 
should like to know who the author is ; hut, 
whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has af- 
forded me. * 

A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two hooks. Letters on the Religion ei- 
sential to Man, a book you sent me before j 
and. The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher 
the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first 
ojipoitunity. The Sib/e you sent me is truly 
elegant ; I only wish it had been in two volumes. 



No. xcvnz, 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOHiiHAM 
MAINS. 

MADAM, Maiichline, 13th Nov. 1788. 

I HAD the very great pleasure of dining at 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- 



♦ The poem entitled Ah Address to Loch Lomond, 
\% said to be written by a gentleman, now one of the 
masters of the High School at Edinburgh, and thesam* 
who translated the beautiful story of the Paria, as pub 
iished in the Bee of Dr. Anderson. 



S18 



BURNS' WORKS. 



men because they aiv weak ; if it ;s so, poets 
must be weaker still; for Misses R. and K. 
and Miss G. M'K, with their flattering atten- 
tions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned 
my head. I own they did not lard me over as 

many a poet does his patron 

but they so intoxicated me with 

their sly insinuations and delicate inuendos of 
compliment, that if it had not been for a Ibcky 
recollection, how much additional weight and 
lustre your good opinion and friendship must 
give me in that circle, 1 had certainly looked 
upon myself as a person of no small consequence. 
I dare not say one word how much I was charm- 
ed with the major's friendly welcome, elegant 
manner, and acute remark, lest I should be 
thought to balance my orientalisms of applause 
over against the finest quey * in Ayrshire, which 
he made a present of to help and adorn my farm, 
stock. As it was on hallow-day, I am deter- 
mined annually as that day returns, to decorate 
her horns with an ode of gratitude to the family 
of Dunlop. 



So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, 
I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a 
day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, un- 
der the guarantee of the major's hospitality. 
There will soon be threescore and ten miles of 
permanent distance between us ; and now that 
your friendship and friendly correspondence is 
entwisted with the heart-strings of my enjoy- 
ment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy 
day of " the feast of reason and the flow of soul." 



No. XCIX. 



TO 



MR, November 8, 1788. 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets 
with which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
sectaries have branded our nature — the princi- 
ple of universal selfishness, the proneness to all 
evil, they have given us ; still, the detestation 
in which inhumanity to the distressed, or inso- 
lence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, 
shows that they are not natives of the human 
heart. — Even the unhappy partner of our kind, 
who is undone — the bitter consequence of his 
follies or his crimes — who but sympathises with 
the miseries of this r"ined profligate brother ? 
we foiget the '•"' .nes, and feel for the man. 

I went last Wednesday to my parish church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledge- 
ments to the AuTHoii OF ALL Good, for the 
eonsequent blessings of the glorious revolution. 
To that auspicious event we owe no l;88 than 
our ]iberti&!S civil and religious ; to it we are 
aikcwise indebted for the present Royal Family. 



t Heifer. 



the ruling features of whose administration Kan 
ever been, mildness to the 8bojet:t, ana tt^ndterness 
of his rights. 

Bred and educated it revolution pr'nciplea, 
the principles of leason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive man- 
ner, in which the reverend gentleman mention- 
ed the House of Stuart, and which I am afraid, 
was too much the language of the day. We 
may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from 
past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes 
of those, whose misfortune it was, perhaps as 
much as their crime, to be the authors of those 
evils ; and we may bliss God for all his good- 
ness to us as a nation, without, at the same time, 
cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only 
harboured ideas, and made attempts, that must 
of us would have done, had we been in their si- 
tuation. 

** The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart," 
may be said with propriety and justice when 
compared with the present Royal Family, and 
the sentiments of our days ; but is there no al- 
lowance to be made for the manners of the 
times ? Were the royal contemporaries of the 
Stuarts more attentive to their subjects' rights? 
Might not the epithets of " bloody and tyranni- 
cal" be, with at least equal justice, applied to 
the House of Tudor, of York, or any other of 
their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case. Sir, seem^ tc oe 
this — At that period, the science of government, 
the knowledge of the true relation between king 
and subject, was, like other sciences and other 
knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from 
dark ages of ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and 
which they saw their contemporaries enjoying ; 
but these prerogatives were inimical to the hap- 
piness of a nation, and the rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of science, which 
had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch 
of France, for example, was victorious over tha 
struggling liberties of his people : with us, luckily 
the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable pre- 
tensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happi- 
ness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom 
of leading individuals, or to the justling of par- 
ties, I cannot pretend to determine ; but like- 
wise, happily for us, the kingly power was shift- 
ed into another branch of the family, who, as 
they owed the throne solely to the call of a fref 
people, could claim nothing inconsistent with 
the covenanted terms which placed them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and laugh- 
ed at for the folly and impracticability of their 
attempts in 1716 and 1745. That they failed, 
I bless God ; but cannot join in the ridicule a- 
gainst them. Who does not know that the abi- 
lities or defects of leaders and con manders art 
often hidden until put to the touchstone of exi« 
gency ; and that there is a caprice of t'ortun*. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



319 



io omnipotence in particular accidents and con- 
innctures ol circumstances, which exalt us as he- 
roes, or brand us as madmen, just as they are 
for or against us ? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
sonsistent being. Who would believe, Sir, that, 
in this our Augustan age of liberality and re- 
finement, while we seem so justly sensible and 
jealous uf our rights and liberties, and animated 
with such indignation against the very memory 
of those who would have subverted them — that 
a certain people, under our national protection, 
should complain not against our monarch and 
a few favourite advisers, but against our whole 
LEGISLATIVE BODV, for similar oppression, and 
almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers 
did of the House of Stuart ! I will not, I can- 
not enter into the merits of the cause, but I dare 
•ay the American Congress, in 1776, will be al- 
lowed to be as able and as enlightened as the 
English convention was in 16S8 ; and that their 
posterity vill ce'ehratp the c^atena* y of tf eir de- 
liverance from us, as duly and sincerely as we 
do ours from the oppressive measures of the 
UTong-headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude. Sir ; let every man who has a 
tear for the many miseries incident to humani- 
ty, feel for a family iilu^triouK as any in Europe, 
and unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and 
let every Briton (and particulaily every Scots- 
man), who ever looked with reverential pity on 
the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal 
Ofiistakes of the kings of his forefathers. * 



No. C. 



TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, Engraver, 
Edinburgh. 

Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1788. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

1 HAVE sent you two more songs. — If . yoa 
tiave got any tunes, or any thing to correct, 
p.ease send them by return of the carrier. 

I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will 
very prol)abIy have four volumes. Perhaps you 
may not find your account lucratively, in this 
business ; but you are a patriot for the music of 
your country ; and 1 am certain, posterity will 
look on themselves as highly indebted to your 
public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on 
jorrectly ; and your name shall be immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming preface for your 
third volume. 1 see every day, new musical 
publications advertised ; but what are they .' 
Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and then va- 
nish for ever : but your work will outlive tke 
momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy the 
teeth of time. 



Have you ue\ei t fair goddess that leads you 
a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? Let 
me know a few of her qualir;es, such as, whe- 
ther she be either black, oi fair ; plump, or 
thin ; short, or tall, &c. ; and choose your air. 
and I shall task my Muse to (celebrate her. 



No. CI. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Mauchline, Nov. 16, 1788. 

REV. AND DEAR SIR, 

As I hear nothing of your motions but tha 
you are, or were, out of town, 1 do not know 
where this may find you, or whether it will find 
you at all. 1 wrote you a long letter, dated 
from the land of matrimony, in June ; hut 
either it had not found you, or, what I dread 
more, it found you or Mrs. Blackh)ck in too 
precarious a state of health and spirits, to take 
tiotice ot an idle packet. 

I have done many little things for Johnson, 
since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and I 
have finished one piece, in the way of Pope's 
Moral Epistles ; but from your silence, I have 
every thing to fear, so 1 have only sent you two 
melancholy things, which I tremble lest they 
should too well suit the tone of your present 
feelings. 

In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to 
Nithsdale ; till then, my direction is at this 
place ; after that period, it will be at Ellisland, 
near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me 
were it but half a line, to let ine know how you 
are, and where you are. — Can I be indifferent 
to the fate of a man, to whom I owe so much? 
A man whom I not only esteem but venerate. 

My warmest good wishes and most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Biacklock, and Miss John- 
ston, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that I 
am more and more pleased with the step I took 
respecting " my Jean." — Two things, from my 
happy experience, I set down as apothegms in 
life. A wife's head is immaterial, compared 
I with her heart — and — " Virtue's (for wisdom 
what poet pretends to it) — ways are waya oi 
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." 
Adieu ! 



(Here follow ** The mother s lament for thM 
OS8 of her son," p. 200, and the song begin* 
ning, " The lazy mist hangs from the brow ^ 
the hill, -J. 5>34.) 



• This letter waa wnt tr the publiiher of 
^rgh Evening Ctrurant. 



32C 



3URNa' WORKS. 



No. CI! 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

El/is.and, Mth December, 1788. 

MT DEAR HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just 
read, makes nie very unhappy. Ahriost " blind 
and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of hu- 
man nature ; but when told of a much loved 
and honoured friend, they carry misery in the 
sound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude 
on mine, began a tie, which has gradually and 
•trongiy entwisted itself among the dearest 
chords of my bosom ; and I tremble at the 
omens of youi late and present ailing habits 
and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- 
ters widely, when you forbid my waiting on 
you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. 
My small scale of farming is exceedingly more 
simple and easy than what you h.ive lately 
seen at Moreham Mains. But be that as it 
may, the heart of the man, and the fancy of 
the poet, are the two grand considerations for 
which I live : if miry ridges, and dirty dung- 
hills are to engross the best part of the func- 
tions of my soul immortal, I had better been a 
rook or a magpie at once, and then I should 
BOt have been plagued with any ideas superior 
to breaking of clods, and picking up gprubs ; 
not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, 
creatures with which I could almost exchange 
lives at any time. — If you continue so deaf, I 
am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well 
again as to he able to relish conversation, look 
you to it, IMadam, for I will make my threaten- 
ixigs good : I am to be at the new-year-day fair 
of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world, 
friend, I will come and eee you. 



Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old schoolfellow and friend, was tru- 
ly interesting. Out upon the ways of the world ! 
— They spoil these ** social offsprings of the 
heart." Two veterans of the " men of the 
world'* would have met, with little more heart- 
workings than two old hacks worn out on the 
road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, 
♦' Auld lang syne," exceedingly expressive. 
There is an old song and tune which has often 
thrilled through my soul. You know I am an 
enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give you 
the verses on the other sheet, as I luppose Mr. 
Ker will save you the postage. * 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Hea- 
ven-inspired poet who composed this glorious 
fragment ! There is more of the fire of native 
genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern 
Elnglibh Bucchanalian^. Now I am on my 



• Hete follows the song of 4vJd lang «]/««> 



hobby horse, I cinaot help inserting tw) i>th»>f 
old stanzas, which please me mightily. 

Go fetch to me a pint o wine. 
An' fill It in a silver tassie. 



No. cm. 

TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO HAD HEARD HE HAD BEEN MAKINOA 
BALLAD ON HER, ENCLOSING THAT BALLAID 

MADAM, December, 1789. 

I UNDERSTAND my Very worthy neighbour 
Mr. Riddel, has informed you that 1 have made 
you the subject of some verses. There is some- 
thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur- 
den of a ballad, that I do not chink Job or 
RIoses, though such patterns of patienre am? 
meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to 
know what that ballad was : so my worthy 
friend has done me a mischief, which 1 dare say 
he never intended ; and reduced me to the un- 
fortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity 
ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolish 
verses, the unfinished production of a random 
moment, and never meant to have met your ear 
I have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman, 
who had some genius, much eccentricity, and 
very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In 
the accidenral groups of life into which one is 
thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a 
character in a more than ordinary degree con- 
genial to liis heart, he used to steal a sketch ot 
the face, meiely, he said, as a nota bene to point 
out the agreeable recollection to his memory. 
What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my 
nmse to me : and the verses I do myself the 
honour to send you aie a /ne/;/en/o exactly of the 
same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, 
that I am so often tjrerl, disgusted, and hurt 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
mankind, that when I meet with a person 
" after my own heart," I positively feel what 
an orthodox protectant would call a species of 
idolatry which acts on my fancy like inspira- 
tion, and I can no more desist rhyming on the 
impulse, than an .^olian harp can refuse its 
tones to the streaming air. A distich or two 
would be the consequence, though the object 
which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age; 
but where my theme is youth and beauty, a 
young lady whose personal charms, wit, and 
sentiment, are equally strikmg and unaffected, 
by heavens ! though I had lived threescore years 
a married man, and threescore years belore I 
was a married man, my imagination v/oaid hal- 
low the very idea ; and I am truly sorry that 
the enclosed stanzas have done such poor justici; 
to such a subiect. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



321 



No. CTV. 
TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

UK. December, 1788. 

Mb. M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm 
and worthy friend, has infoiined me how much 
vou are pleased to interest yourself in my fafe 
as a man, and, (wha< to me is incomparal>)y 
dearer ) my fame as a jmet. I have, Sir, in one 
or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced 

to their notice by friends to tiieni, 

and honoured acquaintanc.'s to me : but you 
are the first gentleman in the country whosf 
benevolence and goodness of heart has interest- 
ed him for me, unsolicited and unknown. I 
am not master enough of the etiquette of these 
matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, 
whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety 
disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as 
I am convinced, from the light in which you 
kindiv view me, that you will do me the justict 
to believe this letter is not the manoeuvr* of a 
needy, sharping author, fastening on those in 
upper life, who honour hmi with a little notice 
of h m or his works. Indeed the situation ol 
poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, 
in some measure, palliate thit prostitution of 
heart and talents they have at times been guilty 
of. I do not think prodigality is, by an means, 
a necessjiry concomitant of a poetic turn, but 
believe a careless, indolent inattention to econo- 
my, is almost inseparable from it ; then there 
must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's 
making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed 
with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him 
out of the way of those windfalls of fortune, 
jvhich frequently light on hardy impudence 
and foot- licking servility. It is not easy to 
imagine a more helpless state than his, whose 
poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose 
character as a scholar, g^ves him some preten- 
tions to the poUtesse of life — yet is as poor as I 
am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven, my star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas 
above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one, who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to 
stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as 1 
am, and so mhumanly cruel, too, us to meddle 
with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part 
of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank 
you. Sir, for the warmth with which you inter- 
posed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I ac- 
knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, 
caprice, and passion — but reverence to God, 
and integrity to my fellow- creatures, I hope I 
ahall ever preserve. I have no return. Sir, to 
ptake you for your goodness but one — a return 
which, I am persuaded, will not be unacc«;pt- 
«bl^ — ^\m honest, warm wiKh«« <^ a grateful 



heart for your hanpincs";, and f^vt^ry -me of that 
lovely flock, who stand to vou in a filial rela> 
tion. If ever calunmy aim the poisoned shaf^ 
at theci, may friendship be by to ward tkt 
blow ! 



LETTERS, 1789. 

No. CV. 
FROM MR. 0. BURNS. 

DEAR BROTHER, Mossgicl, \st Jan. 1789. 

} HAVE just finished my new-year*s-day 
breakfast in the usual form, which naturally 
makes me call to mind the days of former years, 
and the society in which we used to begin 
thefti ; and when I look at our family vicissi- 
tudes, " through the dark postern of time long 
elapsed," I cannot help remarking to you, my 
dear brother, how good the God of Seasons 
is to us ; and that however some clouds may 
seem to lower over the portion of time before 
us, we have great reason to hope that all will 
turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the sea- 
son to you and Mrs. Burns, and beg you wil' 
remember us in the same manner to William, 
the fiist time you see him. 

I am, dear brother, yours, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



No, CVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EHisland, NeW'Year-Day Morning^ 1789. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that I came under the apos- 
tle James's description ! — the prayer of a righ~ 
teons man availeth much. In that case, Ala- 
dam, you should welcome in a year full ol bles- 
sings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs 
tranquillity and self-enjoyraent, should be re- 
moved, and every pleasure that frail humanity 
can taste, should be yours. I own myself so 
little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times 
and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devo- 
tion, for breaking in on that habituated routine 
of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce 
our existence to a kind of instinct, or even 
sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very 
little supetior to mere machinery. 

This day ; the first Sunday ot May ; a breezy, 
blue-skyed noon some time about the beginning, 
and a hoary morning and calm sunny day abo«l 
the end, of autumn ; these, time out of vaia\ 
hare been with roe a kind of holidav. 



S22 



BURNS' WORKS. 



1 belie i'e f owe this to that glorious paper in 
the Spe-^tator, " The Vision of Mirza ;" a 
piece that struck rny young fancy before I was 
capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syl- 
lables : " On the 5th day of the moon, which, 
according to the custom of my forefathers, I al- 
ways keep h( ly, after having washed myself, 
and offered up my morning devotions, I ascend- 
ed the high hill of Bagdat, in order t<» pass the 
rest of the day in meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of 
the substance or structure of our souls, so can- 
not account for those seeming caprices, in them, 
that one should be particularly pleased with this 
thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of 
a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- 
pression. I have some favourite flowers in 
spring, among which are the mountain daisy, 
the hare-bell, the fox- glove, the wild-brier rose, 
the budding birch, and the hoary hawihorn, 
that T view and hang over with particular de- 
light. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle 
of the curlew, in a summer noon, or the wild 
mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an 
autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation 
of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poe- 
try. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this 
be owing } Are we a piece of machinery, which, 
like the iEolian harp, passive, takes the impres- 
sion of the passing accident ? Or do these work- 
ings argue something within us above the trod- 
den clod ? I own myself partial to such proofs 
of those awful and important realities — a God 
that made all things — man's immaterial and im- 
oiortal nature — and a world of weal or woe be- 
yond death and the grave. 



No. CVII. 
FHOM THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

SIR, 2rf January, 1 789. 

If you have lately seen Mrs, Dunlop, of 
Diinlop, you have certainly heard of the author 
of the verses which accompany this letter. He 
was a man highly respectable for every accom- 
pli^hmenv and virtue which adorns the charac- 
ter of a man or a Christian. To a great de- 
gree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, 
was added an invincible modesty of temper, 
which prevented, in a great degree, his figuring 
in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of 
his character and talents to the small circle of 
his chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 
fever, in the prime of life — beloved by all, who 
enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented by all, 
who have any regard for virtue or genius. There 
ie a woe pronounced, in Scripture against the 
person whom all men spiE!^ well of; if ever 



that woe fell upon the head of mortat aian, rt 
fell upon him. He has left behind him a con- 
siderable number of compositions, chiefly poeti- 
cal ; sufficient, I imagine, to make a large oc» 
tavo volume. In particular, two complete and 
regular tragedies, a farce of three acts, and some 
smaller poems on different subjects. It falls to 
my share, who have lived in the most intimate 
and uninterrupted friendship with him from my 
youth upwards, tt» tiansmit to you theveises he 
wrote on the publication of your incon\parable 
poems. It is probable hey were his last, as 
they were found in his scrutoire, folded up with 
the form of a letter addressed to you, and I im- 
agine, were only prevented from being sent by 
himself, by that melancholy dispensation which 
we still bemoan. The verses themselves I will 
not pretend to criticise when writing to a gen- 
tleman whom I consider as entirely qualified to 
judge of their merit. They are the only verses 
he seems to have attempted in the Scottish 
style ; and I hesitate not to say, in general, that 
they will bring no dishonour on the Scottish 
muse , — and allow me to add, that if it is your 
opinion they are not unworthy of the author, 
and will be no discredit to you. it is the incli- 
nation of Mr. Mylne's friends that they should 
be immediately published in some periodical 
work, to give the world a specimen of what 
may be expected from his performances in the 
poetic line, which, perhaps, will be afterwards 
published for the advantage of his family. 



I must beg the favour of a letter from you, 
acknowledging the receipt of this, and to be 
allowed to subscribe myself with great regai'd, 
Sir, your most obedient servant, 

P. e 



No. cviii. 

TO DR. MOORE 
Ellisland, near Dumfries, Uh Jan. 1789. 

SIR, 

As often as I think of writing to you, whicB 
has been three or four times every week these 
six mouths, it gives me something so like the 
idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a con- 
versation with the Rhodian Colossus, that my 
mind misgives me, and the affair always miscar- 
ries somewhere between purpose »nd resolve. 1 
have, at last, got some busines, with you, and 
business-letters are written by the style-book. — 
I say my business is with you, Sir, for you never 
had any with me, except the business that bene- 
volence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
were fcirmeiiy my pleasure, but are now m? 
pride. know that a very great deal of mj 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S^S 



kte eclat was owing to the singularity of my 
•ituatioD, and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen ; 
but still, as I said in the preface to my first edi- 
tion, I do look upon myself as having some pre- 
tensions from Nature to the poetic character. I 
nave not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to 
.earn the Muses* trade, is a gift bestowed by 
Him '* who forms the secret bias of the soul ;" 
—but as I firmly believe, that excellence in the 
profession is the fruit of industry, labour, atten- 
tion, and pains. At least I am resolved to try 
my doctrine by the test of experience. Another 
appearance from the press I put off to a very 
di>tant day, a day that may never arrive — but 
poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my 
rigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of 
the professi.iD. the talents of shining in every 
Bpecies of composition. I shall try (for until 
trial it is impossible to know), whether she has 
qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of 
it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has 
been so often viewed and reviewed before the 
mental eye, that one los;js, in a good measure, 
the powers of critical discrimination. Here the 
best criterion I know is a friend — not only of 
abilities to judge, but with good nature enough, 
like a prudent teacher with a young learner, to 
praise perhaps a little more than is exactly ju.st, 
lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most 
deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart-breaking 
despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already 
immensely indebted to your goodness, ask the 
additional obligation of your being that friend to 
me ? I enclose you an essay of mine, in a walk ! 
of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean the epistle \ 
addressed to R. G., Esq., or Robert Graham, of 
Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth, 
to whom I lie under very great obligations. The 
•tory of the poem, like most of my poems, is 
connected with my own story, and to give you 
the one, I must give you something of the other. 
I cannot boast of 



of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for 
it was mere selfishness on my part ; I was con- 
scious that the wrong scale of the balance was 
pretty heavily charged, and I thought that 
thntwing a little filial piety, and firaternal affec- 
tion, into the scale in my favour, might help to 
smooth matters at the grand reckoning. There 
is still one thing would make my circumstances 
quite easy ; I have an excise ofJRcer's commis- 
sion, and I live in the midst ot a country divi- 
sion My request to Mr. Graham, who is one 
of the commissioners of excise, was, if in his 
power, to procure me that division. If I were 
very sanguine, I might hope that some of my 
great patrons might procure me a trea.sury war- 
rant for supervisor, surveyor -general, &c. 



I believe I shall, in whole, L. 1 00 copy-right 
included, clear about L.400 some little odds ; 
and even part of this depends upon what the 
gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give 
you this information, because you did me the 
honour to interest yourself much in my welfare 



Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, aweel 
poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate my 
future days. 



No CIX. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

EUidand, Jan. 6, 1789. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear Sir . May you be comparatively happy 
up to your comparative worth among the sons 
of men ; which wish would, I am sure, make 
you one of the most blest of the human race. 

I do not know if passing a " Writer to the 
Signet" be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere 
business of friends and interest. However it be, 
let me quote you my two favouiite passages, 
which though I have repeated them ten thou- 
sand times, still they rouse my manhood and 
steel my resolution like inspiration. 



On Reason build resolve. 



To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
married " my Jean," and taken a farm ; with 
the first step I hav? every day more and more 
reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rather 
the reverse. I have a younger brother, who 
•upport« my aged mother ; another still younger 
brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my 
last return from Edinburgh, it cost me al)Out 
L.180 to save them from ruin. Not that I 
oave lost DO much — I only in''.crposed between 
mr brothtfi and his impending fate by the loan 



That column of true majesty in man. 

YOUMO. 

Hear, Alfred, hero of the state. 
Thy genius heaven's high will declare ; 
The triumph of the truly great 
Is never, never to despair ! 
s never to despair ! 

Masque of ALfRXD. 

^ grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle 
for bread, business, notice, and distinction, in 
common with hundreds. — But who are they ? 
Men, like yourself, and of that aggregate body, 
your compeers, Keven-tenths of them come short 
of your advantages natural and accidental ; while 
two of those that remaiti either neglect theii 
parts, as floweis blooming in i desert, or mis- 
spend their strength, like a bull goring a bram 
ble bush. 



524 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But to change the theme : I am still catering 
for Johnson's pul;lication ; and amon^ others, 
I have hrushed up the following old favourite 
song a little, with a view to your worship. I 
have only altered a word zere and there ; but if 
you like the humour of i ;, we shall think of a 
vtansa or two to add to it. 



No. ex. 



TO BISHOP GEDDES. 
Etlisfand, near Dumfries, 3d Feb. 1789. 

TKNERABLE FATHER, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am you do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you, that 1 
am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- 
ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to 
those great and important questions — what I 
am? where I am? and for what I am destined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, 
there was ever but one side on which I was 
habitually blameable, and there I have secured 
myself in the way pointed out by Nature and 
Nature's God. 1 was sensible that, to so help- 
less a creature as a poor poet, a wife and family 
were incumbrances, which a species of prudence 
would bid him shun ; but when the alternative 
was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on 
account of habitual follies, to give them no worse 
name, which no general example, no licentious 
wit, no sophistical infidelity would, to me, ever 
justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitat- 
ed, and a madman to have made another choice. 



In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure : I have good hopes of uiy 
farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise 
commission, which on my simple petition, will, 
at any time, procure me bread. There is a cer- 
tain stigma affixed to the character of an excise 



corrections of years c/m enable me to prodnee 
something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been 
tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some 
larger poetic plans that are floating in my ima- 
gination, or partly put in execution, I shall im- 
part to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
ing with you, which, if you are then in Edin- 
burg. , I shall have »boat the beginning of 
March. 

That acqiiaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must still 
allow me to challenge ; for with whatever un- 
concern I give up my transient connection with 
the merely great, I cannot lose the patronizing 
notice of the learned and the good, without the 
bitterest regret. 



No. CXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, ith March, 1789. 
Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe 
fiom the capital. To a man, who has a home, 
however humble or remote — if that home is like 
mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle 
of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sicken- 
ing disgust. 

" Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you f* 

When I must skulk into a comer, lest the 
rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 
should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 
to exclaim — " what merits has he had, or what 
demerit have I had, in some state of pre-existence, 
that he is ushered into this state of being with 
the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches, in hia 
puny fist, and I am kicked into the world, the 
sport of folly, or the victim of pride ?** I have 
read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think 
it was), who was so out of humour with the 
Ptolemean system of astronomy, that he said, 
had he been of the Creator's council, he could 
have saved him a great deal of labour and ab- 



cer, but I do not intend to oorrow nonour surdity. I will not defend this blaspiieinous 



from any profession ; and though the salary be 
comparatively small, it is great to any thing 
that the first twenty-five years of my life taught 
me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, 
you may easily guess, my reverend and much 



speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble 
stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it 
has suggested itself to me, as an improvemeut 
on the present human figure, that a man, in 
proportion to his own conceit of his consequence 
in the world, could have pushed out the longi- 
tude of his common size, as a snail pushes out 
his horns, or as we draw out a perspective. 
This trifling alteration, : ot to mention the pro- 



honoured friend, that my characteristical trade digious saving it would be in the tear and wean 
is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than ' of the neck and limb-sinews of many of his Ma- 
aver an enthusiast to the muses. I am deter- jesty's liege subjects in the way of tossing the 
mined to study man and nature, and in that head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently tura 
riew incessantly; and to try if the ripening and out a vast advantage, in enabling us at once U 



CORRESPON DE-N CE. 



I^ust the ceremonials in making a bow, or 
making way to a great man, and that too within 
a second of the precise spherical angle of reve- 
rence, or an inch of the particular point of re- 
•pectful distance, which the important creatnre 
itself requires ; as a measuring-glance at its 
tuwerinu altitude would determine the affair like 
jistinct. 

You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
ane great fault — it is, by far, too long. Be- 
sides, my success has encouraged such a shoal 
of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that 
the very term of Scottish Poetry borders on 

the burlesque. When I write to Mr. C , 

I shall advise him rather to try one of his de- 
ceased friend's Eng-lish pieces. I am prodigi- 
ii-jly hurried with my own matters, else I 
would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's 
poetic performances ; and would have offered 
his friends ray assistance in either selecting or 
correcting what would be proper for the press. 
What it is that octupies me so much, and per- 
haps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall 
fill up a paragraph in some future letter. In 
the meantime allow me to close this epistle with 
a few i^ines done by a friend of mine . . . 
I giv4 you them, that as you have seen 
the original, you may guess whether one or two 
alterations I have ventured to make in them, be 
any real improvement. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch with- 
draws. 
Shrink mildly fearful even from applause, 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 

And dTi you are, my charming , seem. 

Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind : 
Your manners shall so true your soul express. 
That all shall long to know the worth they 

guess ; 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even sick'uing envy must approve.* 



No. CXIL 

wETTER FROM WILLIAM BURNS, 
PORT'S BROTHER. 



THE 



JThis and thr3e letters which follow hereafter, are 
the genuine and artlet»8 producticms of the poet's 
younger Brother, William Burns, a ynuna 
man, who after having served an apprentice 
ship to the trade of a Saddler, took his toad 



* iheie beautiful lin«, we have reason tr believe, 
•re the produetioii >( ibe UA\ U> whom this letter U 
•drees a 



towards tl:e Sovtth, and having resided a 
short time at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, arrived 
in London, where he died of a putrid fevei 
in the year 1790.] 

DEAR SIR, Lonytown, Feb. 15, 1789. 

As I am now in a manner only entering into 
the world, I begin this our correspondence, with 
a view of being a gainer by your advice, more 
than ever you can be by any thing I can write 
you of what I see, or what I hear, in the course 
of my wanderings. I know uct how it hap- 
pened, but you were more shy of your counsel 
than I could have wished the time I staid with 
you : whether it was because you thought it 
would disgust me to have my faults freely told 
me while I was dependant on you ; or whether 
it was because you saw that by my indolent dis- 
position, your instructions would have no effect, 
I cannot determine ; but if it proceeded from 
any of tae above causes, the reason of withholding 
your admonition is now done away, for I now 
stand on my cwn bottom, and that indolence, 
which I am very conscious of, is something 
rubbed off, by being called to act in life whether 
I will or not ; and my inexperience, which 1 
daily feel, makes me wish for that advice which 
you are so able to give, and which I can only 
expect from you or Gilbert since the loss of the 
kindest and ablest of fathers. 

The morning after I went from the Isle, I 
left Dumfries about five o'clock and came to 
Annuu to breakfast, and staid about an hour ; 
ami I reached tbis place about two o'clock. I 
have got work here, and I intend to stay a month 
or six weeks, and then go forward, as 1 wish to 
be at York about the latter end of summer, 
where I propose to spend next winter, and go 
on for London in the spring. 

I have the piomise of seven shillings" a week 
from Mr. Proctor while I stay here, and six- 
pence more if he succeeds himself, for he has 
only new begun tra<le here. I am to pay four 
shillings per week of board wages, so that my 
neat income here will be much the same as in 
Dumfries. 

The enclosed you will send to Gilbert with 
the first opportunity. Please send me the first 
Wednesday after you receive this, by the Car- 
lisle Wiigs^on, two of my coaise shirts, one of 
my liest linen ones, my velveteen vest, and a 
neckcloth ; write to me along with them, and 
direct to me, Saddler, in Longtown, and they 
will n<)t miscarry, for 1 am boanled in the 
waggoner's hou^e. You may either let them 
lie given in to the Wiigj^on, or send them to 
Coulthard and (jellebourn's shop and they will 
forward tlum Pray write me often while I 
fitay here. — I wish you would send me a letter, 
though uever so small, every week, for they 
will be no expense to me, and but little trouble 
to you. Please to give my best wishes to my sis- 
ter-in-law, and believe me to be your affi^rtionate 
And oblig«d Brother, 

WILLIAM BURNS 



326 



BURNS' WORKS. 



P. S The great coat yt « gave me at parting 
did me singular service thj day 1 came here, and 
merits my hearty thanks. From what has been 
•aid the conclusion is this ; that my hearty 
thanks and my best wishes are all that you and 
my lister must expect from 

W. B. 



No. CXIIL 
TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

REVEREND SIR, 1789. 

I DO not recollect that I have ever felt a se- 
veier pang of shame, than on looking at the 
date of your obliging letter, which accompanied 
Mr. Mylue's poem. 



1 am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne 
has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by 
the endearing, though melancholy circumstance, 
of its being the last production of his muse, de- 
served a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion ; but, on second thouihts, I am afraid 
that, in the present case, it would be an im- 
proper step. My success, perhaps as much ac- 
cidental as merited, has brought an inundation 
of nonsense under the name of Scottish poetry. 
Suuscriptioti-bills for Scottish poems have so 
dunned, and daily do dun the public, that the 
very name is in danger of contempt. For these 
reasons, if publishing any of Mr. M.'s poems in 
a magazine, &c. be at all prudent, in my opinion 
it certainly should not be a Scottish poem. The 
profits of the labours of a man of genius, are, I 
hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; 
and Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly en- 
titled to that honest harvest, which fate has de- 
nied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr. 
Mylne's fame (among whom I crave the honour 
of ranking myself), always keep in eye his re- 
spectability as a man and as a poet, and take no 
measure that, before the world knows any thing 
about him, would risk his name and character 
being classed with the fools of the times. 

I have, Sir. some experience of publishing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr. M)ine'8 poems, is this : — I would publish, 
in two or three English and Scottish public 
papers, any one of his English poems which 
should, by private judges, be thought the most 
excellent, and mention it at the same time, as 
one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, of 
respectable character, lately deceased, whose 
/>fiems his friends had it in idea to publish soon, 
% ; subscription, for the sake of his numerous 
<. nily : — not in pity to that family, but in jus- 
\ete to what his friends think the poetic merits 



of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most ef 
fectual manner, to those tender connections 
whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of thoal 
merits. 



No. CXIV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

SIR, Ellisland, 23d March, 1781. 

The gentleman who will deliver you this is • 
Mr. Niclson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh* 
bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance o. 
mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, 
I must turn him over to your goodness, to re- 
compense him for it in a way in which he much 
needs your assistance, and where you can effec- 
tually serve him : — Mr. Nielson is on his way 
for France, to wait on his Grace of Queensberry, 
on some little business of a good deal of impor- 
tance to him, and he wishes for your instruc- 
tions respecting the most eligible mode of trar- 
velling, &c. for him, when he has crossed the 
Channel. I should not have dared to take this 
liberty with you, but that I am told, by those 
who hiive the honour of your personal acquaint- 
ance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a 
letter of recommendation to you, and that to 
have it in your power to serve such a character, 
gives you much pleasure. 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
mory of the late Mrs. , of You 

probably knew her personally, an honour of 
which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and among her 
servants and tenants. I know that she was de- 
testud with the most heartfelt cordiality. How- 
evei', in the particular part of her conduct which 
roused my poetic wrath, she was much lest 
blameable. In January last, on my road to 
Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Wighani's in 
Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. 
The f:ost was keen, and the grim evening and 
howling wind were ushering in a ni<^*ht of sn< w 
and drift. My horse and I were both much 
fatigued with the labours of the day, and just as 
my friend the Bailie and I weie bidding defiance 
to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels 
the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs 
, and poor I am forced to brave all the 



horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
horse, ray young favourite horse, whom I had 
just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther 
on, through the wildest muiis and hills of Ayr 
shire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The 
powers of poesy and pn)se sink under me, when 
I would describe what 1 felt. S-affice it to say 
that when a good fire, at New Cunmock, ha^ 
eo far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat dow» 
and wrote the enclosed ode. 



CORRESPONDENXli. 



S«7 



J «ras ac Edinbcrgh lately, aud settled fiaaUy 
with Mr. Creech ; ati'l I tnui>t own, that, at 
**u he hM been amicable &nd fair with lae. 



No. CXV. 
TO >ni. PETER HILL. 

EUisland, 2d April, 1789. 
I WILL make no excuses, my dear Bibliopo- 
vs, (God forgive me for murdering language !) 
that I have sat down to write you on this vile 



It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, and 
either compose or borrow a panegyric If you 
are going to borrow, apply to 



to compose, or rather to compound, something 
very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I 
write to one of my most esteemed friends on 
this wretched paper, which was originally in- 
tended for the venal fist of some drunken ex- 
ciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault 
of an ale-ccllar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
ble>8ings — thou cook of fat l)eef and dainty 
greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old 
housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with 
thy ancient spectacles im thy aged nose ; — lead 
me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up 
those heights, and through those thickets, hi- 
therto inaccessible, and impervious to my anxi- 
ous weary feet : — not those Parnassian craggs, 
bleak and barren, where the hungry worship- 
pers of fame are, breathless, clambering, hang- 
ing between heaven and hell ; but those glitter- 
ing cliffs of Potusi, where the all sufficient, all- 
powerful deity. Wealth, holds his immediate 
court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny 
exposure of plenty, and the hot walls of profu- 
sion, produce those bli8>ful fruits of luxury, 
exotics in this world, and natives of paradise ! — 
Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, usher 
me into the refulgent, adored presence ! — The 
power, splendid and potetit <is he now is, was 
Once the puling nursling of thy faithful care, 
and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, 
thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god, 
by the sceneit ot his infant years, no longer to 
repulse me as a sti anger, or an alien, but to fa- 
vour me with his peculiar countenance and pro- 
tection ! He daily bestows his greatest kindness 
OD the undeserving and the worthless — assure 
!iim, that I bring ample documents of meritcri- 
MU demerits Pledge yourself fur me, that, for 



the glorious cause of Lucre, I will do any thing» 
be any thing— but the horse-leech of priri^to 
oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ! 



But lo descend from heroic^ 



I want t. Shakspeare ; I want likewise an Engr 
lish di(.tiunary<-»Johnson*s, I sufipose, is best 
In these acd all my prose commissions, the 
cheapest is a'ways the best for me. There ia 
a small debt o\ honour that I owe Mr. Robert 
Cleghorn, in Saoghton Mills, my worthy friend, 
and your well-wijhtr. Please give him, and 
urge him to take it» the first time you see him, 
ten shillings worth of iny thing you have to 
sell, and place it to my account. 

The lil>rary scheme ^llat I mentioned to you 
is already begun, under thp direction of Captaia 
Riddel. Thete is another io emulation of it go- 
ing on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. 
Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on a 
greater scale than ours. Capvaia R gave his 
infant society a great many of ^is old books, 
elso I had written you on that c-uoject ; but, 
one of these days, I shall trouble /oa with a 
commission for " The Monklaod Fr'endly So- 
ciety" — a copy of 7'At Spectator, Miyr<,r, and 
JLovnger , Man of Feeling, Man of the Worldf 
Guthrie's Geographical Grammur, with soma 
religious pieces, will likely be our first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present, every guinea has a five-guinea errand 
with 

My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend, 
R. B. 



No. CXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland, 2d April, 17«», 



I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fanCy 
but I wish to send it to you ; and if knoiring 
and reading these give half the pleasure to you, 
that communicating them to you gives to me, 
I am satisfied. 



I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 

' at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 

♦Right Hon. C. J. Fox ; but how long that 

fancy may hold, I cannot say. A tew of the 

first lines I Lave just rough-sketched, an, fol 

Iowa : — 



328 BVRNS' 

SRETCIi 6P a J. F03L 

How wist'-oni and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 

How virt'de and vice bleod their black and their 
white ; 

How gen" us, th* illustrious father of fiction. 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- 
tion — 

I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should 
bustle, 

I care not not L let the critics go whistle. 

3ut now for a patron, whose name and whose 

gloiy, 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No m«n with the half of *em e'er went far 

wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of *em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he 

looks. 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope huf,'ely 

labours. 
That like the old Flebrew walking-switch, eats 

up its neighbours : 
Mankind are his .'•how-box — a friend, would you 

know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture will 

show him. 
Wliat pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 
Due trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd 

him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly descrilie ; 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there's more 

in the witiil, 
As by one drunken iellow his comrades you'll 

find. 
But such is the fiaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In this make of that wonderful creature call'd 

Man. 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same. 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother. 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



On the 20th current I hope to have the ho-, 
oour of assuring you, in person, how sincerely 
I am. 



WORKS. 

No. CXVIL 

TO »m. CUNNINGHAM. 

MT DEAR siK, ElHsland, ith May, 1789. 
( Your duty free favour of the 20th April ! 
received two days ago ; I will not say I peru- 
sed it with pleasure ; that is the cold compli- 
ment of ceremony ; I perused it, Sir, with deli- 
cious satisfaction. — In short, it is such a letter, 
that not ) ou, nor your friend, but the legisla- 
ture, by express proviso in their postage laws, 
should frank. A letter informed with the sou) 
of friendship, is such an honour to human na- 
ture, that they should ©rder it free ingress and 
egress to and from their bags, and mails, as an 
encouragement and mark of distinction to su- 
per-eminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately as 1 was out pretty early 
in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plan- 
tation, and presently a poor little wounded hare 
came crippling by me. You will guess my in- 
digiiation at the inhuman fellow who could 
shoot a hare at this season, when they all ol 
them have young ones. Indeed there is some- 
thing in that business of destroying, for our 
sport, individuals in the animal creation that 
do not injure us materially, which I could never 
reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 

( -See Poetry,) 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am 
doubtful whether it would not be an improve- 
ment to keep out the last stanza but one alto- 
gether. 

C is a glorious production of the author 

of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of the 
C F are, to me, 

♦' Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my 
breast." 

I have a good mind to make verses on you all, 
to the tuue of *' three good fellows ayoHt the 



No. CXVIII. 

Thk poem, in the preceding letter, had alio 
been sent by our bard to Dr. Gregory for hi« 
criticism. I'he ioiluwing is that gentleman' 
re^ly. 

FROM DR. GREGORY 

DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 2d June, 1789. 

1 'AKE the first leisure hour I cuuld command, 
to thank you for yuur letter, and the copy of 
vemet eDciosed ia it. As there is real j;)oeti« 



329 



nent, t Meao botli fancy, and tenderness, and 
Bome haupy expressions, in them, I think they 
well deserve that you should revise them care- 
fully and polish them to the utmost. This I am 
■lire you can do if you please, for you have great 
command both of expression and of rhymes : and 
you may judge from the two last pieces of Mrs. 
Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, how much 
correctness and high polish enhance the value of 
■uch compositions. As you desire it, I shall, 
with great freedom, give you my most rigorous 
criticisms on your vei*ses. I wish you would 
give me another editi(m of them, much amend- 
ed, and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, who, I 
am sure, will have much pleasure in reading it. i 
Pray, give me likewise for myself, and her too, ! 
a copy (as much amended as you please) of the I 
Water Fowl on Loch Turit. j 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good subject ; | 
but the measure, or stanza, you have chosen for i 
it, is not a good one ; it does not Jlow well ; I 
and the rhyme of the fourth line is almost lost ; 
by its distance from the first ; and the two in- 
terposed, close rhymes. If I were you, I would 
put it into a different stanza yet. 

Stanza 1. — The execrations in the first two 
lines are strong or coarse ; but they may pass. 
*' Murder-aiming" is a bad compound epithet, 
and not very intelligible. " Blood-stained," in 
stanza iii. line 4, has the same fault : Bleeding 
bosom is infinitely better. You have accustom- 
ed yourself to such epithets, and have no notion 
how stiff and quaint they appear to others, and 
how incongruous with poetic fancy, aud tender 
aentijQents. Suppose Pope had written, " Why 
that blood-stained bosom gored," how would you 
have liked it ? Form is neither a poetic, nor a 
dignified, nor a plain, common word : it is a 
mere sportsman's word ; unsuitable to pathetic 
or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent," 
in this sense, is a nursery word ; but both may 
pass. 

Stanza 4'. — " Who will now provide that life 
a mother only can bestow,'' will not do ut all : 
it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. Do 
you mean " provide for that life which the mo- 
ther had bestowed and used to provide for ?" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
*♦ Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in the 
title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow 
would be wrong : it is but a colloquial and vul- 
gar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. " JShot" 
is improper too. — On seeing a person (or a 
sportsman) wound a hare; it is needless to add 
with what weapon ; but if you think otherwise, 
you should say, with a fowling-piece. 

Let me see you when you come to town, and ' 
I will show you some more of Mrs. Hunter's 
poems. • 



No. CXIX. 
TO MR JAMES HAMILTON, 

GROCER, GLASGOW. 

DEAR SIR, Ellislandy May, 26, 1789. 

I SKND you by John Glover, carrier, tht 
above account for Mr. Turnbull, as I suppose 
you know his addi'ess. 

I would fain oifer, my dear Sir, a word of 
sympaihy with your misfortunes ; but it is • 
tender string, and I know not how to touch it. 
It is easy to flourish a set of high-flown sentiments 
on the subject that would give great satisfaction 
to — a breast quite at ease ; but as one observes, 
who was very seldom mistaken in the theory of 
life, " The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and 
a stranger intermeddleth not therewith." 

Among some distressful emergencies that I 
have experienced in life, I have ever laid this 
down as ray foundation of comfort — That hi 
he who has lived the life of an honest man, has 
by no means lived in vain f 

With every wish for your welfare and futai« 
success, 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Sincerely youn. 



No. CXX. 
TO WM. CREECH, Esq. 

SIR, Ellisland, May SO, 1789. 

I HAD intended to have troubled you with a 
long letter, \>ut at present the delightful sensa- 
tions of an omnipotent toothach so engross all 
my inner man, as to put it out of my power 
even to write nonsense. — However, as in duty 
bound, I approach my bookseller with an offer- 
ing in my hand — a few poetic clinches and a 
song : — To expect any other kind of offering 
from the rhyming tribe, would be to know 
them much less than you do. 1 do not pretend 
that there is nmch merit in these morceaux, but 
I have two reasons for send'ng them ; primo^ 
they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison with 
my present feelings, while fifty troops of infer- 
nal spirits are driving post from ear to ear along 
my jaw-bones ; and secondly, they are so short, 
that you cannot leave off in the middle, and *^ 
hurt my pride in the idea that you found any 
work of mine too heavy to get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not on- 
ly beg of you, but conjire you — by all your 
wishes and by all your hopes, that the must 



• It must be admitted, that this criticism is not 
Okore distinguisheil by its p-xxl sense, than by its free- 
Join from cerem riy. It is impossible not to smile at 
the manner in which the poet may be suppo8e<l to have 
wcecved it In tact it api>ears, as the sailuri say. to 



have thrown him quite a-back. In a letter which he 
wrotesoon after, he says, '• Dr. G is a good man, 

but he crucifies me." — And again, •« I believe in th« 
iron justice of Dr. (J ; but like the devils, I be- 
lieve and tremble." However, he profiled by these 
criticisms, as the reader will find, by comparing thii 
fir^t edition of the poem, with that published afUar 
wardi. 



330 



BURNS* WORKS. 



wrill spare the satiric vvir»k in the moment of 
your foibles ; that she will warble the song of 
rapture round your hymeneal couch ; and that 
she will shed on your turf the honest tear of 
elegiac gratitude ! grant my request as speedily 
as possible — Send ne by the very first fly or 
coach for this place, three copies of the last edi- 
tion of my poems ; which place to my account. 
Now, may the good things of prose, and the 
good things of verse, come among thy hands 
Until thev be filled with the good things of this 
iile! prayeth 

robt. burns 



No. CXXL 
TO MR. M'AULEY, 

OF DUMBARTON. 

DEAR SIR, ith June, 1789. 

Though I am not without my fears respect- 
ing my fate at that grand, nniversil inquest of 
right and wrong, romtiionlv called The Last 
Dity, yet I trust there is one sin, which that 
arch-vairaboiid, Satan, who, I understand, is to 
be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth 
—I mean ingratitude. Thort' is a certain pret- 
ty large quantum of kindnes-; for which I re- 
main, and from inability, I fear, must remain 
your debtor ; but though uri ihle to repay the 
debt, I assure you Sir, I shall ever warmly re- 
member the obligation. It gives me the sin- 
cerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, 
Mr. Kennedy, that y<ui are, in immortal Allan's 
language, " Hale and weel, and living ;" and 
that your charming family are well, and promis- 
ing to be an amiable and respectable addition to 
the company of performers, whom the Great 
Manager of the Drama of Man is bringing into 
action for the succeeding age 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in 
which you once warmly and etFectively interest- 
ed yourself, I am here in my old way, holding 
my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or 
the health of my dairy ; and at times saunter- 
ing by the delightful windings of the Nith, on 
the margin of which I have built my humble 
domicile, praying for sfasonable weather, or 
holding an intrigue with the Muses ; the only 
gypseys with whom I have now any intercourse. 
As I am entered into the holy state of matrimo- 
ny, I trust my face is turned coniplettly Zion- 
ward ; and as it is a rule with all honest fel- 
.ows, to repeat no grievances, I hope that the 
jttle poetic licences of former days, will of 
course fall under the oblivious influence of some 
good-natured statute of celestial proscription. 
In my family devotion, which, like a good pres- 
byterian, 1 occasionally give to my household 
folk«i. I am extremely fond of the psalm, " Let 
not the errors of my youth," &c. and that other, 



" Lo, children are God's neritage,'* &c. U 
which last Mrs. Burns, who, by the bye, haa a 
glorious '* wood-note wild" at either old song 
or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Haa« 
del's Messiah. 



No. CXXII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLTE. 

Ellisland, June 8, 1789. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I AM perfectly ashamed of myself when X 
look at the date of your la'»t. It is not that I 
forget the friend of my heart and the companion 
of my peregrinations ; but I have been con- 
demned to drudgery beyond sufferance, though 
not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have 
had a collection of poems by a lady [)ut into my 
hands to prepare them for the press ; which 
horrid task, with sowing my corn with my own 
hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, piaisterers, 
&c, to attend to, roaming on business through 
Ayrshire-^-all this was against me, and the very 
first dreadful article was of itself too much for 
me. 

13th. I have not had a moment to spare from 
incessant toil since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir, 
is a serious matter. You know by experience 
that a man's individual self is a good deal, but 
believe me, a wife and family of children, when- 
ever you have the honour to be a husband and 
a father, will shew you that your present most 
anxious hours of solicitude are spent on trifles. 
The welfare of those who are very dear to us, 
whose only support, hope and stay \ve are — this, 
to a generous mind, is another sort of more im- 
portant object of care than any concerns what- 
ever which centre merely \n the individual. On 
the other hand, let no yt. ng, unmarried, rake- 
helly dog among you, make a song of his pre- 
tended liberty and freedom from care. If the 
relations we stand in to king, coimtry, kindred, 
and friends, be any thing but the visionary fan- 
cies of dreaming meta4)hysicians ; if religion, 
virtue, magnanimity, geuerosity, humanity and 
justice be aught but empty sounds ; then the 
man who may be said to live only for others, 
for the beloved, honourable female whose tender 
laithful embrace endears life, and for the help- 
less little innocents who are to be the men and 
women, the worshippers of his God, the sub- 
jects of his king, and the support, nay the very 
vital existence of his Countkv, in the ensuing 
age ; — compare such a man with any fellow 
whatever, who, whether he bustle and push in 
husiness among labourers, clerks, statesmen ; or 
whether he roar and rant, and drink and sing 
in taverns — a fellow over whose grave no one 
will breathe a single heigh-ho, except from th« 



CORRESPCNDENCE. 



331 



;obweb-tie of wliat is called good fellowship — 
trho has no view nor aim but what tem.inates 
in himself — if there be any grovelling eaithborn 
wretch of our species, a reuegado to common 
sense, who would fain believe that the noble 
creature, man, is no better than a sort of fun- 
gus, geaerateii out of nothing, nobody knows 
how, and soon dissipating in nothing, nobody 
knows where ; such a stupid beast, such a 
crawling reptile might balance the foregoing 
unexaggerated comparison, but no one else 
would have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. 
To make you amends, I shall send you soon, 
and more encouraging still, without any postage, 
one or two rhymes of my later it^anufacture. 



No. CXXIIL 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

DZAR SIR, Clifford Street, lOth June, 1789. 

I THANK you for the different communica- 
tions jou have made me of your occasional pro- 
ductions in manuscript, all of which have merit, 
and some of them merit of a different kind from 
wliat appears in the poems you have published. 
You ought carefully to preserve all your occa- 
sional productions, to correct and improve them 
at your leisure : and when you can select as 
many of these as will make a volume, publish 
it either at Edinburgh or London, by aubscrip- 
tion : On such an occasion, it may be in my 
power, as it is very much in my inclination, to 
be of service to you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, that 
in your future productions you should abandon 
the Sc<'ttt>h stariza and dialect, and adopt the 
measure and language of modern English poetry. 

The stanza wli ch you use in imitation of 
Christ Kirk on the Green, with the tiresome 
repitiiion of " that day," is fatiguing to English 
ears, and I should think not very agreeable to 
Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your H'lt/ 
Fair is lost on the English ; yet, witiiout more 
trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed the 
whole to them. The same is true of some of 

your other poems. \n)u\\v JEpiatleto J. S , 

tl-e stanzas from that beginning with this line, 
" This life, so fu's I understand," to that which 
ends with. " Short while it grieves," are easy, 
flowing, gaily philosophical, and of Horatian ele- 
gan % — thelanguige is English* withayeu; Scot- 
tish vt-rds, and some of tho.>>e so liarmonious, 
B« to add to the beauty : for what poet would 
not preft^r gloaming to twiliyht. 

I imai{itie, that by carefully keeping, and oc- 
casionally poli>hing and Correcting tliose verses, 
trhich the mu^e dictates, you will, within a year 
or two, have anfuixer volume as large as the first, 
ceady for the p ; and this, without diverting 



jot. from every proper attention *.o the study 
j.nd prvfire of husbandry, m which 1 under- 
stand you are very learned, and which I fancy 
you will choose to adhere to as a vife, whiK 
poetry amuses you trom time to tune as a niis- 
tress. The former, like a prudent wife, must 
not show ill humour, although you retain a 
sneaking kindness to this agreeable gipsy, and 
pay her occasional visits, which in no manner 
alienates your heart from your lawful spouse, but 
tends on the contrary to promote her interest, 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech 
to send you a copy of Zeluco. This perform- 
ance has had great success here, but 1 shall be 
glad to have your opmion of it, because I know 
you are above saying what you do not think. 

I beg you will offer my best wishes to my 
very good friend Mrs. Hamilton, who I under- 
stand is your neighbour. If she is as happy as 
I wish her, she is happy enough. Make my 
compliments also to Mrs. Burns, and believe m« 
to be, with sincere esteem, 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXIV. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



JEllisland, 2lst June, 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 

Will you take the effusions, th«» miserabla 
effusions of low spirits, just as they flow from 
their bitter spring. I know not of any particu- 
lar cause for this worst of all my foes besetting 
me, but for some time my soul has been be- 
clouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil 
imaginations and gloomy presages. 



Monday Evening, 
I have just heard .... give a sermon. 
He is a man famous for his benevjilence, and I 
revere him ; but from such ideas of my Creator, , 
good Lord deliver me ! Religion, my honoured 
friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally 
concerns the ignorar\t and the learned, th«» porjr 
and the rich. That there is an incomprehensi- 
bly great Being, to whom I owe my existence> 
and that he must be intimately acquainted with 
the operations and progress of the internal ma- 
chinery, and consequent outward deportment of 
this creature which he has made ; these are, I 
think, self-evident propositioiis. That there ii 
a real and eternal distinction between virtue and 
vice, and consequently that I am an accountable 
creature ; that from the seeming nature of th** 
human mind, as well as from the evident im 
perfection, nay, positive injustice, in the admi. 
nistratioQ of affairs, both in the natural anii 
moral worlds, there niu«t be a retri')utive scene 
of ecistence beyond the grave; mast, I think 



32 



BURNS' WORKS. 



be allowed by every one who will give himself a 
moment's reflection. I will go farther, and af- 
firm, that from the sublimity, excellence, ai.d 
purity of his doctrine and precepts, unparalleled 
by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of 
many preceding ages, though, to appearance, he 
himself was the obscurest and most illiterate of 
our species ; therefore, Jesus Christ was from 
Gud. 



Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, 
or any individual in it, this is my measure of 
iniquity. 

What think you. Madam, of my creed ? I 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I va- 
lue almost next to th(> approbatioD of my own 
romd. 



No. CXXV. 



FROM MISS J. L- 



(IR, London- House, I2*A July, 1789. 

Though I have not the happiness of being 
personally acquainted with you, yet amongst the 
number of those who have read and admired 
your publications, may I be permitted to trouble 
you with this. You must know, Sir, I am 
somewhat in love with the Muses, though 1 
cannot boast of any favours they have deigned 
to confer upon me as yet ; my situation in lite 
has been vciy much against me a^o that. 1 
have spent some years in and about Ecclefechan 
(where my parents reside), in the station of a 
servant, and am now come to Loudon-Huuse, 

at present possessed by Mrs. H : she is 

daughter to Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop, whom I 
understand you are particularly acquainted with. 
As I had th*' pleasure of perusing your poems, 
I felt a partiality for the author, which I should 
not have experienced had you been in more dig- 
nitied station. I wrote a few verses of address 
to you, which I did not then think of ever pre- 
senting : but as fortune seems to have favoured 
me in this, by bringing me into a family by 
whom you are well known and much esteemed, 
and where perhaps I may have an opportunity 
pf seeing you ; I shall, in hopes of your future 
friendship, take the liberty to transcribe them. 



Fair fa' the honest rustic swaia. 
The pride o* a' our Scottish plain : 
Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain, 

And note sae sweet : 
Uid Ratusay's shade revived agaiu 

In thee we greet. 



Loved Thalia., that delightf i' muie, 
Seem*d iang snut up as a lecliise * 
To all she did her aid refuse. 

Since Allan's day : 
*TiIl Burns arose, then did she chuse 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre g 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does wai'm • 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Csesar and Luath weel can speak, 
*Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, 
But into human nature keek. 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures once a- week. 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Thy dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie hamespun speech, 

Wi* winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson, 
Than servile bards, who fawn and Beech 

Like beggar's niessun. 

When slighted love becomes your theme^ 
And women's faithless vows you blame* 
With so much pathos you exclaim. 

In your lament ; 
But glanced by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 

The daisy too ye sing wi* skill ; 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill^ 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill, 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill, 

To Burns's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear. 

Or Sam, that critic most severe, 

A ploughboy sing with throat sae c4ear< 

They in a rage, 
Their works would a' in pieces *«ir. 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint, 
The beauties of your verse to paint, 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th* attempt would doubtless vex a saint 
And weel may me. 

The task I'll drop with heart sincere, 
To heaven present my humble prayer 
That all tie blessings mortals shar<^ 

May be by turns. 
Dispel ^sed by »r indulgent care 

To Robert Burns. 



CORRESPONTDENCE. 



333 



Sir, T hope yC\i will pavdon my boldness in 
cbis ; my hand trembles while 1 write to you, 
conscious of my unworthiness of what I would 
most earnestly solicit, viz. your favour and 
friendship ; yet hoping you will show jH)urself 
possessed of as much generosity and good-nature 
as will jirevent your exposing what may justly 
be found liable to censure in this measure, I 
■hall take the liberty to subscr'be myself, 
Sir, 
Your most obedient hun Me servant, 

J 

P. S. — If you would condescend to honour 
Be with a few lines from your hand, 1 would 
take it as a particular favour, and direct to me 
at Loudon-House, near Galslock. 



No. CXXVl 

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

MT DEAR SIR, London, 5th Aug. 1789. 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon 
abilities which you possess, must render your 
corr^sponilence very acceptable to any one. I 
can assure you, I am particularly proud of your 
partiality, and shall endeavour, by every method 
in my power, to merit a continuance of your 
politeness. 



No. cxxvn. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOINO 
MT DEAR SIR, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular sea- 
son, and the indolence of* poet at all times and 
seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for ne 
glecting so long to answer your obliging lettei 
of the 5th of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your la- 
borious concern in . . . . I do not doubt ; 
the weighty reasons you mention were, I hope, 
very, and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and 
your health is a matter of the last importance , 
but whether the remaining proprietors of the 
paper have also done well, is what I much 

doubt. The , so far as I was a 

reader, exhibited such a brilliancy of point, such 
an elegance of paragraph, and such a variety of 
intelligence, that I can hardly conceive it possi- 
ble to continue a daily paper in the same degree 
of excellence ; but if there was a man who had 
abilities equal to the task, that man's assistance 
the proprietors have lost. 



When you can spare a few momeuts I should 
be proud of a letter from you, directed for me, 

Gerrard Street, Soho. 



I cannot express my happiness sufficiently 
at the instance of your attachment to my late 
inestimable friend, Bob Fergusson, who was 
particularly intimate with myself and welations.* 
While 1 rcollect with pleasure his extraordinary 
talents, and many amiable qualities, it affords 
me the greatest consolation, that I am honoured 
with tne correspondence of his successor in na- 
tional simplicity and genius. That Mr. Burns 
has refined in the art of poetry, must readily be 
admitted ; hut notwithstanding many favourable 
representations, I am yet to leain that he in- 
herits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
tnch a plenitude of lancy and attraction in him, 
that when I call the happy period of our inter- 
wuise tt; my memory, I feel myself in a state of 
deliiium. I was then younger than him by 
eight or ten years ; but his manner was «o feli- 
citous, that he enraptured every person around 
him, and infused into the hearts of the young 
and old, tlie spirit and animation which operated 
an his own mind. 

I am, dear Sir, yours, fcc 



• I he erection of a monument to Mm. 



When I received your letter I was transcn- 
bing for . . . ., my letter to the magistrates 
of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their per- 
mission to place a tomb-stone over poor Fergns- 
j son, and their edict in consequence of my peti- 
tion ; but now I shall send them to ... . 
. . . Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life be- 
yond the grave, which I trust there is ; and i{ 
there be a good God presiding over all nature, 
which I am sure there is ; thou art now enjoy- 
ing existence in a glorious world, where worth 
of the heart alone is distinction in the man ; 
where riches, deprived of all their pleasure-pur- 
chasing powers, return to their native sordid 
matte: : where titles and honours are the disre- 
gard li reveries of an idle dream ; and where 
tha' ;eavy virtue, which is the negative conse- 
qu..-; ( - of steady dulness, and those thoughtless, 
though often destructive follies, which are the 
unavoidable aberrations of frail human nature, 
wili be thrown into equal oblivion as if they had 
never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! so soon as your pre^eot 
views and schemes are concentred in an aim, J 
shall be gJad to hear from you : as your wel 
fare and happiness is by no means a subject in. 
different to 

Yours, he. 



331 



BURNS' WORKS. 



N<K CX XVIII. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 
Ellisland, 6th September^ 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 

I HAVE mentioned in my last, my appoint* 
Blent to the excise, and the birth of little Frank ; 
who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to 
tie honourable name of Wallace, as he has a 
fine manly countenance, and a figure that might 
do credit to a little fellow two months older ; 
and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
when he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so 
loud as the horn that his immortal namesake 
blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling 
bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. 
L ; a very injjenious, but modest compo- 
sition. I should have written her as she re- 
quested, but foi- the hurry of this new business. 
I have heard of her and her compositions in this 
country ; and I am happy to add, always to the 
honour of her character. The fact is, I know 
not well how to write to her ; I should sit 
down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how 
to stain. I am no daub at fine drawn letter- 
writing ; and except when prompted by friend- 
■hip or gratitude, or which happens extremely 
•arely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her 
name), that presides over epistolary writing, I 
sit down, when necessitated to write, as I would 
sit down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August 
struck me with melancholy concern for the state 
of your mind at present. 



Would I could write you a letter of comfort ! I 
would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as 
1 would to write an epic poem of my own com- 
position, that should eijual the Iliad. Religion, 
my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong 
persuasion in a future state of existence; a pro- 
position so obviously probable, that, setting re- 
velation aside, every nation and people, so far as 
investigation has reached, for at least near four 
thousand years, have, in some mode or other, 
firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and 
pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a 
very daring pitch ; but when I reflected, that I 
was opposing the most ardent wishes, and the 
most darling hopes of good men, and flying in 
the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was 
shocked at aiy own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the 
following lines, or if you have ever seen them ; 
but it is one of my favourite quotations, which 
I keep constantly by me in my progress through 
life, in the language of the ^wok of Job, 

** Against the da-; of battle and of war.** — 

spoken of religioiv 



** *Tis this, my friend, that streaks our motrang 

bright, 
*Tis this that gilds the horror of our night, 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friendf 

are few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pur 

sue ; 
*Tis this thjkt wards the blow, or stills the 

smart. 
Disarms affliction or repels his dart : 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 

skies.* 

I have been very busy with Zeluco. The 
Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of it ; and I have been revolving in my mind 
some kind of criticisms on novel writing, but 
it is a depth beyond my research. I shall how- 
ever digest my thoughts on the subject as well 
as I can. Zeluco ib a most sterling perfor- 
mance. 

Farewell ! A Dieu, h hon Dieu, je votil 
commende i 



No. CXXIX. 

FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinbvrgh, 2Uh August, I789t 
Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and thy art : 
If art it may be call'd in thee, 
Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast diffuses. 
And warms thy soul with all the Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace. 
Thy numbers move the sage's face, 
Or bid the softer passions rise, 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt, 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know. 
With thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Jean her heidih? 
What promises thy farm of wealth ? 
Whether the Muse persists to smile. 
And all thy anxious cares beguile ? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive ? 
And how thy darling infants thrive ? 

For me, with grief and sickness spent* 
Since I my journey homeward bent. 
Spirits depress'd no more I mourn. 
But vigour, lifi;, and health return 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep a- night, and live all day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ ; 
Happy while yet these hours remain. 
If Burns could join the cheerful traia» 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



33d 



With wo ited zeal, sincere and fervent, 
once more his humble servant, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. CXXX. 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK 

Ellisland 2\st October, 1789. 
Wo r, but your letter made me vauatie ! 
And are ye hale, aud weel, and cantie ? 
I ken'd it still your wee bit jauntie, 

Wad bring ye to 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'U do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak m; Wtter ; 
I lippen*d to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better 

But aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tired o* sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. • 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'U now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimpliii streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity suppviiie is 

'Mang s(ms o* men. . 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brata o' duddies : 

Ye ken yoursel my heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt. 
But I'll sned besoms — thtaw saugh woodiet, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me through this warld o* care ! 
I'm WL-ary sick o't late and air I 
Not but I hae a richer shaie 

Than mony ithert ; 
Bat why soomo ae matt better fare, 

And a' men brithers ! 



Come Firm Resolve take thou tne van 
Thou stalk o* carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair* 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o* verse, and scant o' time)^ 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weana and wife, 
That*8 the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky ; 
I wat she is a dainty chuckle, 

As e'er tread clay t 
And gratefully my gude auld cockie, 

I'm your's for aye. 
ROBERT BURNS. 



• Mr. Heron, author of the Hiitory of Scotland ; 
and among various other worki, of a respectable life 
•four poet himselt 



No. CXXXL 
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, Carsk. 

SIR, Ellisland, Oct 16, 1789. 

Big with the idea of this important day * at 
Friars Carse, I have watched the elements and 
skies in the full persuasion that they would an- 
nounce it to the astonished world by some pheno- 
mena of terrific portent. — Yesternight until a 
very late hour did I wait with anxious horror, 
for the appearance of some Comet firing half the 
sky ; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina- 
vians, darting athwurt the startled heavens ra- 
pid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as those 
convulsions of nature that bury n.itions. 

The elements, however, seem to take the mat- 
ter very quietly : they did not even usher in 
this morning with triple suns and a shower o 
blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes, and 
the mighty claret-shed of the day. — For me, as 
Thomson in his Winter says of the storm— I 
shall ** Hear astonished, and astonished sing," 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, fcc. 



No. CXXXIL 
TO THE SAME. 



SIR, 



I WISH from my inmost soul it were in my 
power to give you a more substantial gratific*- 



• The day on which 
fat. 



the Whistle" was contendei 



33H 



BURNS WORKS. 



tion and ret irn for all your goodness to the poet, 
than transcribing a few of his idle rhymes. — 
However, '* an old song," though to a proverb 
an instance of insignificance, is generally the 
only coin a poet has to pay with. 

If my poems which I have transcribed, and 
mean still to transcribe into your book, were 
equal to the grateful respect and high esteem I 
bear for the gentleman to whom I present them, 
they would be the finest poems in the language. 
—As they are, they will at least be a testimony 
vith what sincerity I have the honour to be. 
Sir, 
Your devoted humble servant. 



No. CX XXIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Elf island, Nov. 1, 1789. 

MT DEAR FRIEND, 

I HAD written you long ere now, could I have 
guetssed where to find you, for I am sure you 
have more good sense than to waste the precious 
days of vacation time in the dirt of business and 
Edinburgh. — Wherever you are, God bless you, 
and lead yoii not into temptation, but deliver 
vou from evil ! 

1 do not know if I have informed you that I 
am now appointed to an excise division, in the 
middle of which my house and farm lie. In this 
I was extremely lucky. Without ever having 
been an expectant, as they call their journeymen 
excisemen, I was directly planted down to all in- 
tents and purposes an officer of excise; there to 
flourish and bring forth fruits — worthy of re- 
pentance. 

T know not how the word exciseman, or still 
more opprobrious, gauger, will sound in your 
ears. I too have seen the day when my audi- 
tory nerves would have felt very delicately on 
this subject ; but a wife and children are things 
which have a wonderful power in blunting these 
kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for 
life, and a provision for widows and orphans, 
you will allow is no bad settlement for a poet. 
^or the ignominy of the profession, I have the 
encouragement which I once heard a recruiting 
sergeant give to a numerous, if not a respec- 
table audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock. 
— " Gentlemen, for your further and better en- 
couragement, I can assure you that our regiment 
is the most blackguard corps under the crown, 
ind consequently with us an honest fellow has 
iie surest chance for preferment." 

You need not doubt that I find several very 
unpleasant and disagreeable circumstances in my 
business ; but I am tired with and disgusted 
at the language of complaint against the evils of 
life. Human existence in the most favourable 
situations does not abound with pleasures, and 
oas its inconvenipoiies and ills ; capricious fool- 



ish man mistakes .hese Jnconvpr.'encp'j r,v.\ i'li 
as if they were the peculiar property ot his par 
ticular situation ; and hence tb.it eteii.il fickle- 
ness, that love of change, whicli has ruir.id, and 
daily does ruin many a tine fellow, as well as 
many a blockhead ; and is almost, without ex- 
ception, a constant source of disappointment and 
misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on — not 
80 much in business as in life. Are you pretty 
well satisfied with your own exertions, and to- 
lerably at ease in your internal reflections ? 
'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer, 
but beyond comparison more to be a great cha- 
racter as a man. That you may be both the 
one and the other is the earnest wish, and that 
you will be both is the firm persuasion of, 
My dear Sir, &c. 



No. CXXXIV. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 

SIR, 9th December, 1789. 

I HAVE a good wtiile had a wish to trouble 
you with a letter, and had certainly done it long 
ere now — but for a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolution, as if one 
should say, " You have found Mr. Graham a 
very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that 
inteiest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, 
you ought by every thing in your power to keep 
alive and cherish." Now though, since God 
has thought proper to make one powerful and 
another helpless, the connexion of ohliger and 
obliged is all fair ; and though my being under 
your patronage is to me highly hnnourab'e, yet. 
Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that, as a poet 
and an honest man, you first interested yourself 
in my welfare, and principally as such still, you 
permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise busine8« go on a great 
deal smoother with me than I expected ; owing 
a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. 
Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance 
of iMr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be 
honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find 
my hurried life greatly inimical to my corres- 
pondence with the Muses. Their visits to me, 
indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaint- 
ance, like the visits of good angels, are short and 
far between ; but I meet them now and then ai 
1 jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I 
used to do on the banks of Ayr. I taiie the li- 
berty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of them 
the productions of my leisure thoughts in my 
excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, 

the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour 

that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have 

seen them before, as I sent them to a London 

aper. Though I dare say ye^ have noot 



(2f\^ RT->^"'^AJ»^^^TV(^-p^^ 



of tbe «»!cmn-leap^e-and-covenint fire, wlileh 
(hone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, 
End the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you 
must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the cler 
gynien of Ayr, and his heretical book. God 
help him, poor man ! Though he is one of the 
worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the 
whole presthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in 
every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor 
Doctor and his numerous family are in imi 
tient danger of being thrown out to the mercy 
of the winter-winds. The enclosed ballad on 
that business is, I confess, too local, but 
laughed myself at some conceits in it, though 
I am convinced in my conscience, that there are 
a good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
to the present canvass in our string of boroughs, 
I do not believe there will be such a hard run 
match in the whole general election. * 



I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individual 
of both parties ; but a man who has it in his 
power to be the father of a country, and who 

is a character that one cannot 

speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet 
I dbubt his fate. 



No. CXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, \Sth December, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheet- 
fbl of Rhymes. Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you eveiy thing 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of 
a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state 
of which is most conducive to our happiness — 
or the most productive of our misery. For 
now near three weeks I have been so ill with 
a nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged 
to give up, for a time, my excise books, being 
scarce able to lift my head, much less to rvJe 
once a-week over ten muir parishes. What is 
Man ! To-day, in the luxuriance of health, ex- 
ulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a few 
days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded with con- 
scious painful being, countin;,' the tardy pace of 
the lingering moments by the repercussions of 
anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter. 
Day follows night, and night come* after day. 



• '\ his alludet to the contest for the borough of 
Dumfries, between the Duke of Queensberry'a interett 
«nd that of Sir James Johnstone. 



only to curse him with life whic;li gives him no 
pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark terminatiwi 
of that liff, is a something at which he recoili. 

" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 
Difsclose the secret 

Wlint 'tis you are, and we mvst shortly he f 
'tis no matter : 



A little time will make us learn'd as you are." 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in 
conscious existence ! When the last gasp of 
agony has announced, that I am no more to 
those that knew me, nnd the few who loved 
me : when the coM, stiffened, unconscious, 
ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be 
the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become in 
time a trodden clod, shall 1 yet be warm in life, 
seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye ve- 
nerable sages, and holy flamens, is there proba- 
bility in your conjectur«s, truth in your stories 
of another world beyond death ; or are they all 
alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? If 
there is another life, it must be only for the just, 
the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane ; 
what a flattering idea, then, is the world to 
come? Would to God I as firmly believed it, 
as I ardently wish it! There I should meet an 
aged parent, now at rest from the many buifet- 
ings of an evil world, against whieli he so long 
and so bravely struggled. There should I meet 
the friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, because 

he loved me and could serve me Muir! thy 

weaknesses were the aberrations of human na- 
ture, but thy heart glowed with every thing ge- 
nerous, manly, and noble ; and if ever emana- 
tion from the All-good Being animated a human 
form, it was thine ! — There should I with 
speechless agony of rapture, again recognize my 
lost, my ever dear Mary ! whose bosom was 
fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love. 

My Mary, dear departed shade I 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest? 

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that lend his breast .* 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of character s ! 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy re- 
velation of blissful scenes of existence beycnd 
death and the grave, is not one of the many 
impositions which time after time have been 
palmed on credulous mankind. I trust thai in 
thee, " shall all the families of the earth l»e 
blessed," by being yet connected together in 
better world, where every tie that bound heart 
to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, far 
beyond our present conceptions, more endearing 

1 am a good deal inclined to think with tlios* 
who maintain, that what are called nervous af. 
fections are in fact diseases of the mind. I cbA. 
not reason, I cannot think ; and but to you I 
would not venture to write any thing above aa 



338 



BURNS' WORKS. 



fij 



order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of 
She ills of Sfe not to sympathize with a diseased 
wretch, W..O has impaired more than half of any 
faculties he possessed. Your goodness will ex- 
cuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer 
daio scarcely read, and which he would throw 
mto the fire, were he able to write any thing 
better, or indeed any thing at all. 

Rumour told tne something of a son of yours 
who was returned from the East or West In- 
dies. If you have gotten news of James or An- 
thony, It was cruel in you not to let me know ; 
as 1 promise you, on the sincerity of a man, 
who is weary of one world and anxious about 
another, that scarce any thing could give me so 
murh pleasure as to hear of any good thing be- 
falling my honoured friend. 

li you have a minute's leisure, take up your 
pen tn pity to le pauvre miserable, R. B. 



No. CXXXVI. 
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 



SIR, 

The following circumstance has, I believe, 
been omitted in the statistical account, trans- 
mitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, in 
Nithsdale I beg leave to send it to you, be- 
cause it is new and may be useful. How far it 
is deserving of a place in your patriotic publica- 
tion, you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge, is certainly of very great im- 
portance, both to them as individuals, and to 
society at large. Giving them a turn for read- 
ing and reflection, is giving them a source of 
innocent and laudable amusement ; and besides 
raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, 
a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. 
of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulat- 
ing libeiary, on a plan so simple as to be prac- 
ticable in any corner of the country ; and so 
useful, as to deserve the notice of every country 
gentleman, who thinks the improvement of that 
part of his own species, whom chance has 
thrown into the humble walks of the peasant 
urid the aitizan, a matter worthy of his atten- 
tion. 

Mr. Kiddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and fitming neighbours, to form themselves 
into a society for the purpose of having a library 
anioiig themselves. They entered into a legal 
engagement to abide by it for three years ; with 
a saving clause or two, in case of removal to a 
distance, or of death. Each member, at his 
entry, paid five shillings, and at each of their 
meetings, which weie held every fourth Satur- 
day, sixpence more. With their entry-money, 
and the credit which they took on the faith of 
their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock 



of books at the commencement. What authon 
they were to purchase, was always decided by 
the majority. At every meeting, all the books, 
under certain fines and forfeitures, by way oi 
penalty, were to be produced ; and the mem- 
bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation. 
He whose name stood, for that night, first on 
the list, had his choice of what volume he pleas- 
ed in the whole collection ; the second had his 
choice after the first ; the third after tne second, 
and so on to the last. At next meeting, he who 
bad been first on the list at the preceding mee» 
ing, was last at this ; he who had been seoond 
was first ; and so on through the whole three 
years. At the expiration of the engagement, 
the books were sold by auction, but only among 
the members themselves : and each man had hit 
share of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, 
which was formed under Mr. Riddel's patron- 
age, what with benefactions of books from him, 
and what with their own purchases, they had 
collected together upwards of one hundred and 
fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, that a 
good deal of trash would be bought. Among 
the books, however, of this little library, were 
Slair^s Sermons, Robertson's Hist ry of Scot- 
land, Hume's History of the Stuarts, the Spec- 
tatc, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Loiinger, 
Observer, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
Ckrysal, Don Quixotte, Joseph Andretvs^ S^e. 
A peasant who can read, and enjoy such books, 
is certainly a much superior being to his neigh- 
bour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very 
little removed, except in shape, from the brute 
he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 
much merited success, I am, 
Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

A PEASANT.* 



• The above is extracted from the third volume of 
Sir John Sinc4air's Statistics, p. 598. — It was enclosed 
to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himself in the following 
letter, also printed there: — 

" SiH John, 

" I enclose you a letter, wTitten by Mr. Burns as an 
addition to the account of Dunscore parish. It eon. 
tains an account of a small library which he was s« 
good (at my desire), as to set on foot, in the barony ol 
Monkland,' or Friar's Carse. /n this parish. As its 
utility has been felt, particularly among the younger 
class of people, I think, that if a similar plan were «»«- 
tablished, in the dilFeient pari.shes of ^cotland it 
would tend greatly to the speedy improvement of ihe 
tenantry, trades people, and work r)eople. Mr. Burns 
was so good as to take the whole charge of this small 
concern. He was treasurer, librarian, and censor to 
this little society, who will long have a grateful senie 
of his public spirit and exertions for their imprCT> 
ment and information. 

" I have the honour Xp be. Sir John, 
" Yours most sincerelv, 

" ROBERT RIDDELr 

To Sir Johyt Sinclair, 
of UlbtteTj Bart. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



3:1S 



LETTERS, 1790. 

No. CXXXVII. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

ElUsland, 1 1 ih January, 1790. 

AVAR BHOTHER. 

I MEA N to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not in my present frame of mind much 
appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves 
are in a . . . . state. I feel that horrid 
hypochondria pervading every atom of both 
body and soul. This farm has undone my en- 
ioyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all 
hands. But let it go to . . . ! I'll 6ght it 
out and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players 
here just now. I have seen them an evening 
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me 
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- 
land, who is a man of apparent worth. On 
New-year-day evening I gave him the following 
prologue, which he spouted to his audience with 
applause. 

PROLOGUE. 
No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city. 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 

pity: 
Though, by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home ; 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me 

say, 
" You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the<^ues- 

tion ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word— 

" THINK !" 

Ye sjjrightly youths, quite flush with hope 

and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, Ury, sententious, proverb way ! 
Ke bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is eve half the battle ; 
That though some by the Mcirt may try to snatch 

him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him, 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing. 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
.\ngelic forms, high Heaven's peculi ir care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 

brow, 
4ud humbly begs you'll mind th« important — 

NOW ! 



To crown you7 happiness, he ashS y ur «.ivr. 
And offi?rs, bliss to give and to lecei^e. 

For our sincere, though haply weak eadeik. 
vours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours 
And howsoe'«T our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



I can no more. — If once I was clear of thiv 
. . . farm, I should respire more at ease 



No. CXXXVIIL 

FROM WILLIAM BURNS, THE POETS 
BROTHER. 

DEAR BROTHER, Newcastle, 24'th Jan. 1790. 

I WROTE j'ou about six weeks ago, and I have 
expected to hear from you every post since, but 
I suppose your excise business which you hinted 
at in your last, has prevented you from writing. 
By the bye, when and how have you got into 
the excise ; and what division have you got 
about Dumfries? These questions please an- 
swer in your next, if more important matter do 
not occur. But in the mean time let me have 
the letter to John Murdoch, which Gilbert wrote 
me you meant to send ; enclose it in your's to 
me, and let me have them as soon as possible, 
for I intend to sail for London, in a fortnight, 
or three weeks at farthest. 

You promised me when I was intending to 
go to Edinburgh, to write me some instructions 
about behaviour in companies rather above my 
station, to which I might be eventually intro- 
d'^ced. As I may be introduced into such com- 
panies at Murdoch's, or on his account, when I 
go to London, I wish you would write me some 
such instructions now : I never had more need 
of them, for having spent little of ray time in 
company of any sort since I came to Newcastle, 
I have almost forgot the common civilities o( 
life. To these instructions pray add some of a 
uioral kind, for though (either through the 
strength of early impressions, or the frigidity of 
my constitution), I have hitherto withstood the 
temptation to those vices, to which young f«^ 
lows of my station and time of life are so mucn 
addicted, yet, I do not know if my virtue wil! 
be able to withstand the more powerful teuipta- 
tions of the metropolis : yet, through God's as- 
sistance and your instructions, I hope to wea- 
ther the storm. 

Give the compliments of the season and mj 
love to my sisters, and all the rest of your fa- 
mily. Tell Gilbert, the first time you wr'iU. 
him, that I am well, and that I will write him 
either when I sail or when I arrive at London. 
I am, &C. 

W B. 



340 



BURNS* WORKS. 



No. CXXXIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisIand, 2bth January, 1790L 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
•busintss (hat I have not \%'ritten to you, Ma- 
dam, long ere now. My health is greatly bet- 
ter, and I now begin once more to share in sa- 
tisfaction and enjoyment with the rest of ray 
fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but wl y will you make me 
run the risk of being contemptible and merce- 
iaary in my own eyes I When I pique myself 
n«k fuy independent spirit, I hope it is neither 
poetic license, nor poetic rant ; and I am so 
flattered with the honour you have done me, 
in making me your compeer in frieudship and 
friendly correspondence, that I cannot without 
pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded 
of the leal inequality between our situations. 

Mogt sincerely do I rej(>ice with you, dear 
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fate, but my own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hc.irted, manly 
young fellow, in the little 1 had of his icquaint- 
anre, has interested me deeply in his foi tunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shlp- 
wreck, which yon so much admire, is ri« more. 
After weathering the dreadful catastrophe he so 
feelingly describes in his poem, and after Wd-a- 
thering many hard gales of fortune, he went tu 
the bottom with the Aurora frigare ! J forget 
what part of Scotland had the honour of giving 
him birth, but he was the son of obscurity -iiid 
misfortimo. * He was one of those daring ad- 
venturous spirits, which Scotland beycnd any 
other country is remarkable for producing. 
Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs 
delighted over the sweet little leech at her bo- 
som, where the fioor fellow may hereafter wan- 
der, and what may he his fate. I remember a 
stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, not- 
withstanding its rude simj)licity, speaks feelingly 
to the heart . — 



" Little did my motTier ttiink, 
That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die. 

Old Scottis-h som^B are- v<»u know, a favtmr* 
ite study and pursuit or mine ; and now I air 
on that subject, allow me to give you tv« 
stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I 
am sure wiH please you. The catastrophe oi 
the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting 
her fate. She concludes with this pathetia 
wish : 

•* O that my father had ne'er on me smiled ; 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung J 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 
But that I had died when I was young! 

that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a* | 
And O sae sound as I should sleep !'* 

1 do not remember in all my reading to have 
met with any thing more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last liD«. 
Misery is like love ; to speak its language truly, 
the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give 
yniir little god-son* the small-pox. They ar« 
rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. 
By the way, I cannot help congratulating you 
on his looks and spirit. Every person who 
sets him, acknowledges him to be the finest, 
handsomest child he has ever seen. I am my- 
self delighted with the manly swell of his little 
ciiest, and a certain miniature dignity in the 
carriage of his head, and glance of his fine black 
eye. which promise the undaunted gallantry of 
an independent mind. 

1 thought to have sent you some rhymes, but 
time forbids. I promise you poetry until you 
are tired of it, next time I have the honour of 
assuring you how truly I am, &c. 



* Falconer was in early life a seaboy, to use a word 
of Shalispeare, on boarc) a man-of-war, in which capa- 
city he attracted the notice of CampbelJ, the author of 
tiie satire on Dr. Jchnson, entitled Lfxiphavea, then 
purser of the ship. ranij>t)ell toi^k him as his servant, 
and (ielighted m giving him instruction; and when 
Falconer afterwards acquire;! celebrity, boasted of him 
a-s his scholar. Th* editor had this inf rmation from 
a surgeon of a man-of-war. in 1777. who knew both 
Camiibell and \ alc-ouer, and who himself perisheil soon 
after by fhipwrerk, on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer hap|)ened so lately as I 
1770 or 1771, yet in the biography prefixed by Dr. An- ' 
ierson to his works, in the complete edition of the 
Poets of Great Britain, it is said, " Of the family, 
oirth-piace, and education of William Falconer, there 
are no memorials." On the au'honty already given, • 
it may be mentioned, that he was a native oiF one of | 
the towns on the coast of Fife, and that his parents, j 
who had suffered some mi-fonnnes, re'rove( to one ^ 
jf the sea.i)ort8 of England, where thev l)oth died, I 
soon after, of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Fal- I 
coner, then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In conse- ' 
gijence of which he entered on board a man-of-war. | 
These last circumstances are howev yi less co'tain.— ; 
CnoMEK. 



No. CXL. 



FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

mth January, 1 790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable 
to quote any one's own words ; but the value I 
have for your friendship, nothing can more truly 
or more elegantly express, than 

" Time but the impression stronger makefly 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twicp without baTUi§ 
• The bf ni's second son, Francia 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



34 



neard from you, 1 am apt to think my letters 
nave miscairietJ. My conjecture is only framed 
upon the chapter of accidents turning up against 
me, as it too often does, in the trivial, and I 
Hay with truth add, the more important affairs 
cf life : but I shall continue occasionally to in- 
form you what is going on among the circle of 
your friends in these parts. In these days of 
merriment, I have frequently heard your name 
vroclaimed at the jovial board — under the roof 
of our hospitable friend at Steuhouse Mill^ there 
were no 

" Lingering moments number'd with care." 

I saw your Address to the New-year in the 
Dumfries Journal. Of your productions I shall 
Bay nothing, hut my acquaintance allege that 
when your name is mentioned, which every man 
of celebr ity must know often happens, I am the 
champion, the Mendoza, against all snarling cri- 
tics, and narrow-minded reptiles, of whom a few 
on this planet do crawl. 

With best compliments to your wife, and her 
bUck-eved sister, I remain, yours, &c. 



does me the honour to mention me so kindly .^ 
his works, please give him my best thanks for 
the copy of his book — I shall write him, my first 
leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but I 
think his style in prose quite astonishing. 



No. CXLI. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 



Your book came safe, and I am going to trou- 
ble you with farther conmiissiotis. I call it 
troubling you — because I want only, books ; 
the cheapest way, the best ; so you may have 
to hunt for them in the evening auctions. 1 
want Smollett's Works, for the sake of his in- 
comparable humour. I have already Roderick 
Random, and Humphrey Clinker — Peregrine 
Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Frederick, Count 
Fathom, I still want ; but as I sai<l, the veriest 
ordinary copies will serve me. I am nice only 
in the appearance of my poets. I forget tha 
price oi" Cowper's Poems, but, I believe, I must 
have them. I saw the other day, proposals for 
a publication, entitled, " Banks's new and com- 
plet Christian's Family Bible," printed for C. 
Cooke, Paternoster-row, London. — He promises 
at least, to give in the work, I think it is three 
hundred and odd engravings, to which he has 
put the names of the first artists in London.* — 
You will know the character of the performance, 
as some numbers of it are published ; and if it 
is really what it pretends to be, set me down 
as a subscriber, and send me the published 
numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first leisure mi- 
nute, and trust me, you shall in future have no 
reason to complain of m,y silence. The dazzling 
perplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave me 
to pursue my course in the quiet path of me« 
thodical routine. 



No. CXLII. 

TO MR. W. NICOLL. 

MY DEAR SIR, ElUsIand, Feb. 9, 1790. 

That d-mned mare of yours is dead, i 



Elllsland, Feb. 2. 1790. 
No ! I will not say one word about apolo- 
gies or excuses for not writing — I ain a poor, 
rascally ganger, condemned to gallop at least 
200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds 
and yeasty barrels, and where can I find time 
to write to, or importance to interest any body? 
The upbraidings of my conscience, nay the up- 
braidirigs of my wife, have persecuted me on 

your account these two or three months past 

I wish to God I was a great man, that my cor- 
respondence might throw light upon you, to 
let the world see what you really are ; and then 
IVould make your fortune, without putting my 
hanri in my pocket for you, which, like all other 
great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as j 

possible. What are you doing, and how are v„u j would freely have given her price to have saved 
doing ? Have you lately seen any of my few 

* Perhaps no set of men more effectually avail them. 
selves of the easy credu'ityof the public, tiian a eer. 
tain description of Paternoster-row btM)kscller3. Three 
hundred ami odd engravings ! — and l)y ihcjirst a tuts 
in London, too! No wonder that Burns was dazzled 
by the splendour of the promise, it is no unusual 
thing for this class of impostors to iUustrate tlie H'rf.v 
Scriptures by plates oriKinaily cMj^ravcl for the His- 
tort/ of EngUinil, and I have actually seen subjocts de- 
signed by out celebrated art:si Stoihaid, from Clarissa 
Uarlove itnd the Novelist's Magazine, eonverlec', with 
incredible dexterity by thesr Bonksellinf^-ilreslawg 
into ScripturiU embeltishments ! One of these vendejs, 
of ' Kanuly Bibles' lately calle I on me, to consult tne 
professionally, about a folio engraving he broughj 
with him.— It represented MoNs. Buj-kon, sedated, 
coiiiemplatmg various grou)>s of aniinaN that sur. 
romided hi'ii j He merelv wished, he said, to be in 
forme<l, whether by uivcloaViiiig the Naturalist ar.<i 



friends? What is becotne of the borough 
ReKoR.vi. or how is the fate of my poor name* 



lake M idenuiiselle Bui 



decided ? O man ! 



but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dis- 
honest artifices, that beauteous form, and that 
once iniiocfiit aiiii >t .1 ingenuous mind might 
bave Hhone cun.-picnous and lovely in the faith- 
ful wife, and the affectionate mother , and shall 
the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasur;;8 have 
DO claim on thy humanity ! 

I saw li:t«ly in a Review, Sfime extracts from 
a new poem, called The Village Curate ; send 
t me. I wa t likewise a cheap copy of The 
World. Mr. Vrn/strong, the young poet, who 



H2 



BURNS WORKS. 



her : she has vtxed me beyond description. In- 
dcbteil as I was to your goodness beyond wbat 
I can ovei repay, I eagerly grasped at your of- 
fer to have the mare with me. That I might 
at least shew my readiness in wishing to be 
grateful, I took every care of her in my power. 
She was never crossed for riding above half a 
score of times by me or in my keeping. I drew 
her in the plough, one of three, for one poor 
weeki I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which 
was the highest bode I could' squeeze for her. 
I fed her up and had her in fine order for Dum- 
mies fair ; when four or five days before the fair, 
«ne was seized with an unaccountable disorder 
in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the 
neck ; with a weakness or total want uf power 
in her fillets, and in short the whole vertebrae 
of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged, 
and in eight and forty hour«;, in spite of the two 
best farriers in the country, she died and be 
d-mned to her ! The farriers said that she had 
been quite strained in the fillets beyond cure be- 
fore you had bought her, and that the poor de- 
vil, though she might keep a little flesh, had 
been jaded and quite worn out with fatigue and 
oppression. While she was with me, she was 
under my own eye, and I assure you, my much 
valued friend, every thing was done for her that 
could be done ; and the accident has vexed me 
to the heart. In fact I could not pluck up spi- 
rits to write you, on account of the unfortunate 
business 

There is little new in this country. Our the- 
atrical company, of which you mu^t have heard, 
leave us in a week. Their merit and character 
aie indeed very great, both on the stage and in 
private life, not a worthless creature among 
them ; and their encouragement has been ac- 
cordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen 
to twenty-five pounds a night ; seldom less than 
the one, and the house will hold no more than 
the other. There have been repeated instances 
of sending ar/ay six, and eight, and ten pitunds 
in a night for want of room. A new theatre is 
to be budt by subscription ; the first stone is to 
be laid on Friday first to come.* Three him- 
dred guineas have been raised by thirty subscri- 
bers, and thirty more might have been got it 
wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was 
introduced to me by a friend from Ayr ; and a 
•vorthier or cleverer fellow 1 have rarely met 
with. Some of our clergy have slipt in by 
stealth now and then ; but they have got up a 
farce of their own. You must have heard how 
the Rev. Mr. Lawson of Kiikmahoe, seconded 
by the Rev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, 
and the rest of that faction, have accused in for- 
mal process, the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. He- 
ron of Kirkgnnzeon, that in ordaining Mr, 
Nelson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean, he, 
the said Heron, feloniously and treasonably 



giv.ng him a rather more resolute look, the plate could 
tiot, at a trifling expense, be made to pass for •• Da- 
mEi. IN THE 1. ions' oen !" — Cromek. 

* (hi Friday Jirst to cotne—a Scotticism. 



bound the said Nelson to the confession of faitl^ 
so far as it was agreeable to reason and thi 
word of God ! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remenibered most grate- 
fully to you. Little Bobby and Frank are 
charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to 
death with fatigue. For these two or thre« 
months, on an average, I have not ridden less 
than two hundred miles per week. I have 
done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. 
Sutherland two Prologues ; one of which was 
delivered last week. I have likewise strung 
four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune ol 
Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un- 
foitunate mare, beginning, — 

" Peg Nicholson was a good Bay-mare,"— 
(see/). 77.) 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicoll, and lit- 
tle Neddy, and all the family. I hope Ned is 
a good scholar, and will come out to gather nuts 
and apples with me next harvest. 



No. CXLIII 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

ElUslnnd, 13th February, 17S0. 
J BEG your pardon, my dear ami much valued 
friend, for writing to you on this very nnfashion- 
able, unsightly sheet — 

" My poverty but not my will consents.** 

But to make amends, since of modish post I 
have tiime, except one poor widowed half sheet 
of gilt, vvhidi Ties in my drawer among ray ple- 
beian foolsciip pages, like the widow of a man 
of t'a.sliion, whom that unpolite scoundrel, Ne- 
cessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine- 
apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
bearing help-n\iite of a village priest ; or a glass 
of whisky-todriy, with the ruby-nosed yoke- 
fellow of a foot-padding exciseman — I niake a 
vow to enclose this sheet-full of epistolary frag- 
ments in that my only scrap of gilt-paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to you 
long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I wiU 
not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more dear 
to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke 

of to the powers of , than my 

friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I 
cannot write to you ; should you doubt it, take 
the folk)wing fragment which was intended for 
you some time ago, and be convinced that I can 
antithesize sentiment, and cireumvolute periods, 
as well as any coiner o' phrase iu the regio<4S Ot 
philology 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



345 



KT osAR CUNNINGHAM, December, 1789. 

Where are you ? And what are you doing ? 
Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a 
fiiendship as he takes up a fashion ; or are you, 
like some other of the worthiest fellows in the 
world, the victicn of indolence, laden with fetters 
of ever- increasing weignt. 

What strange beings we are I Since we have 
a portion of conscious existence, equally capable 
of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or 
of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it 
W surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there 
De n<»t such a thing as a science of life ; whether 
oiethod, economy, and fertility of expedients be 
lot applicable to enjoyment ; and whether there 
Be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
renders our little scantling of happiness still 
less ; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss 
which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhor- 
reuce. There is not a doubt but that health, 
talents, character, decent competency, respecta- 
ble friends, are real substantial blessings ; and 
yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many 
or all of these good things, contrive, notwith- 
standing, to be as unhappy as others to whose 
lot few of them have fallen. I believe one great 
Sijurce of this mistake or misconduct is owing 
t') a certam stimulus, with us called ambition, 
which goads us up the hill of life, not as we 
ascend other eminences, for the laudable curio- 
•ity of viewing an extended landscape, but ra- 
ther for the dishonest pride of looking down on 
others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly dimi- 
nutive, in humble statbns, &c. &c. 



Sunday, lUh February, 1790. 
Goo help me ! I am now obliged to join 

" Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 

these churches, I am past redemption, 

and what is worse, to all eternity. I 

am deeply read in Boston's Fourfold State, 
Marshall on Sanctification, Gutherie's Trial of 
3 Saving Interest, Sfc. but " There is no balm 
in Gilead, there is no physician there," for me ; 
BO I shall e' en turn Arminian, and trust to 
•* Sincere, though imperfect obedience." 



Tuetdfiy, I6th. 
Luckily for me I was prevented from the 
discussion of the knotty point at which I had 
iuflt made a full stop. All my fears and cares 
are of this world : if there is another, an hones't 
man has nothmg to fear from it. I hate a man 
that wishes to be a Deist, but I fear, every fair, 
unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be « 
•ceptic. It is not that there are any very stag- 
gering arguments againsr tke immortaiitf of 



man ; but like electricity, ph'.ogisiL«n, &c. th* 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data to go upon. One tlflng frightens me much ; 
that we are to live for ever, seems too good news 
to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from wau\ 
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends 
witlhout satiety or separation — how much should 
I be indebted to any one who could fully assure 
me that this was certain ! 



My time is once more expired. I will write 
to Mr. Cleghori- soon. God bless him and all 
his concerns ! Anu may all the powers that pre- 
side over conviviality and friendship, be present 
with all their kindest influence, when the bearer 
of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish I 
could also make one. — I think we should be . 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever thing* are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
things are kind, think .on these things, and 
think on ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CXLIV 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Ellisland, 'id March, 1 790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly 
Society, it was resolved to augment their libra- 
ry by the following books, which yon are to 
send us as soon as possible : — The Mirror, The 
Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the Wj/ld, 
(these for my own sake I wish to have by th« 
first currier ) A nox's History of the Nefoi ma 
tion ; Rae's Hist ry of the Rtbelli.n in 1715 
any good History if the Rebellion in 174<5 
A Disjitay (f the Secession Act and Testimo 
ny, by Mr. Gibb ; Hervcy^s Meditiitio7is ; ^n 
veridge's Thoughts ; and another copy of WoM 
son's Body of Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three ok- toe 
months ago, to pay some money he cwed cu> 
into your hands, and lately I wofcc tt you 'v 
the same purpose, but I lis'/e Leifd fr (Ui oei 
ther one nor ofe^er cf vou- 

In addition to the huo^.6 7. cotrmissioned ia 
my last, I want levj ir. .ich, A'i Index to the 
Excise Laws, or an ab'^d^m^nt <f all the Sta~ 
tutes now in for'- >, '^lative to the Excise, by 
Jellinger Symoos ; I want three cojjies of this 
book ; i^ it Is now to be had, cheap or dear, get 
it for ira. Ao honest country neighbour of 
mir-i vacts. toe, A Family Bible, the laiger 
the be'.tt"", but second -handed, for he doc* rot 
'•iioose tc give above ten shillnige for the bo.'*. 
I Waot likewise for myself, as you can pick 
then, up, second-handed o< cheap, copies oi 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Otway'i Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson's, 
Drt/Oens Conyreve*s, Wycherhy^s, Vanbrugh's, 
Cihher's, or any Dramatic Works of the more 
nrwirlei n — Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Colman, or 
Sheridan. A good copy too of Moliere^ in 
French, I much want. Any other good dra- 
matic authors in that language I want also ; 
but comic authors chiefly, though I should wish 
to have Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. 
I am in no hurry for all, or any of these, but if 
you accidentally meet with fhem very cheap, 
get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, 
how do you do, my dear friend ? and how is 
Mrs. Hill ? I trust if now and then not so ele- 
gaiitly handsome, at least as amiable, and sings 
as divinely as ever. My good-wife too has a 
charujing '* wood-note wild ;" now could we 
<bur— — — 



I am out of all patience with this vile world, 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature benevo- 
lent creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly in- 
stances, I do not think that avarice of the good 
things we chance to have, is born with us ; but 
we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and 
hunger, an<l poverty, and want, that we are un- 
der a ciir«fd necessity of studying selfishness, in 
order that we may exist ! Still there are, in 
every aye, a few >oiils, that all the wants and 
woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even 
to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. 
If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I 
contemplate myself on this side of my disposi- 
tion aud character. God knows I am no saint; 
I have a whole host of follies and sins to answer 
for ; but if I could, and I believe I do it as far 
as I can, I would wipe away all tears from all 
eye& Adieu ! 



No. CXLV. 

FROM WILLIAM BURNS, THE POET'S 
BROTHER. 



swarms of fresh hands just come from the cotub 
try that the town is quite overstocked, and ex- 
cept one is a particularly good workman, ( which 
you know I am not, nor I am afraid ever will 
be), it is hard to get a place : However, I doa'l 
yet despair to bring up my lee-way, and shall 
endeavour if possible to sail within three or four 
points of the wind. The encouragement here it 
not what I expected, wages being very low in 
proportion to the expense of living, but yet, if I 
can only lay by the money that is spent by 
others in my situation in dissipation and riot, I 
expect soon to return you the money I borrowed 
of you and live comfortably besides. 

In the mean time 1 wish you would send up 
all my best linen shirts to London, which you 
may easily do by sending them to some of your 
Edinburgh friends, to be shipped from Leith. 
Some of them are too little ; don't send any but 
what are good, and I wish one of my sisters 
could find as much time as to trim my shirts at 
the breast, for there is no such thing to be seen 
here as a plain shirt, even for wearing, which is 
what I want these for. I mean to get one or 
two new shirts here for Sundays, but I assure 
you that linen here is a very expensive article. 
I am goinf; to write to Gilbert to send me an 
I Ayrshire cheese ; if he can spare it he will send 
i it to you, and you may send it with the shirts, 
: but I expect to hear from you before that time. 
The cheese I could get here ; but I will have a 
pride in eating Ayrshire cheese in London, and 
the expense of sending it will be little, as you 
are sending the shirts any how. 

I write this hy J. Stevenson, in his lodgings, 
while he is wiitiog to Gilbert. He is well aud 
hearty, which is a blessing to me as well as to 
him ; We were at Covent Garden chapel this 
forenoon, to hear the Calf preach ; he is grown 
very fat, and is as boisterous as ever.* There 
is a whole colony of Kilmarnock people here, so 
we don't want for acquaintance. 

Remember me to my sisters and all the fa- 
mily. I shall give you all the observations I 
hav« made on Loudon in my next, when I shaL 
hav« feen more of it. 

I am, dear Brother, yours. &c 

W B. 



London^ 'HXst Marchy 1790. 

HEAR BROTIIEK, 

I HAVE U-en here three weeks come Tuesday, 

and wucjld have written you sooner, but was not 
6«*tt!e(l in a place of work. — We were ten days 
on our passage from Shiehls ; the weather being 
calm I was not sick, except one day when it 
blew j)retty hard. I got into work the Friday 
after 1 trame to town, I wrought there only 
eight days, their job being done. I got work 
again in a shop in the Strand, the next day af- 
ter 1 left my former master. It is only a tem- 
porary j»lace, but I expect to be settled soon in 
ft shop to my mind, although it will be a harder^i 
la^k than I at first imagmed, fur there are such • 



No. CXLVL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, lOth Jpril, IV 90. 
I HAVE just now, my ever-honoured friend 
enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a pape) 
of the Lounger. You know my national pre- 
judices. I had often read and »dmtred the SpeC' 
tator, Aiventurer, Itamhler, and World; bu 
still witn a certain regret, that th«y were sc 

• rUt PosUcal AddrcH to the CaUL 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S4f 



thott;U{(li1y and entirely English. Alas ! have I 
•ften said tu myself, what are all the boasted ad- 
vantages which my country reaps from the 
Union, that can counterbalance the annihilation 
of her independence, and even her very name ! 
I often repeat that couplet of ray favourite poet, 
Goldsmith — 

•* States of native liberty possest, 

Though very poor, may yet be very blest.'* 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common 
kerms, " English ambassador, English court," 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see that 
equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by 
" ♦^•' Commons of England." Tell me, my 
friend, is this weak prejudice ? I believe in my 
ct/iiscieuce such laeas, as, " my country ; her 
independence ; her honour ; the illustrious 
names that mark the history of my native 
land," &(;. — I believe the-e, iiinnnij your men of 
the world — men who in fact iiuide ibi' the most 
part and govern our wdild, are looked on as so 
many modifications of x/roiighe-idedness. They 
know the use of biwiing out such terms, to 
rouse or iea<l the kabus.k ; I ur for their own | 
private use. with almost all the ahle statesmen j 
that ever exi>ted, or now txist, when they talk { 
of right and wrotig, tliey only me m proper and 
improper; and their measure of conduct is, not 
what they ought, but what they i>ake. For 
the truth of this I shall not ransack the history 
of nations, but ap, eal to one of the ablest judges 
of men, and himself one of the ablest men that 
ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. 
In fact, a man who could thoroughly controul 
his vices whenever they interfered with his in- 
terest, and who could completely put on the ap- 
pearance of every virtue as often as it suited his 
purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the perfect 
man ; a man to lead nations. But are great 
abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished 
without a blemish, the standard of human ex- 
cellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion 
of men ff the world ; but I call on honour, vir- 
tue, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a 
loud negative ! However, this must be allowed, 
that, if you abstract from man the idea of an 
existence beyoml the grave, then, the true mea- 
sure of human conduct \fi proper inA improper: 
Virtue and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are 
in that case, of scarcely the import and value to 
the wui Id at large, as harmony and discord in 
the mod.fications of sound ; and a delicate sense 
of honi.ur. like a nice ear for music, though it 
may sometimes give the possessor an ecstasy un- 
known M the coarser organs of the herd, yet, 
considering the harsh gratings, and inharmonic 
•ars, in this ill-tuned ^tate of being, it is odda ' 
but the individual would be a.s happy, and cer- ■ 
taiidy would be as nmch respected by the true 
judges of so< iety, as it would then stand, jvi&h- 
out e.ther a g(»od ear or a good heart. I 

Yon must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and I uunger f'v the first time, and I _ 



am quite in raptures with them : I should be 
glad to have your opinion of some of the papers, 
The one I have just read, Lounger, No. 61, 
has cost me more honest tears than any thing 
I have read of a long time. I\I"Kenzie has beea 
called the Addison of the Scots, and in mv 
opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the com- 
parison. If he has not Addison's exquisite hu- 
mour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tender 
and the pathetic. His Man of Fetliny (but I 
am not counsel-learned in the laws of criticism), 
I estimate as the first performance in its kind I 
ever saw. From what books, moral or evec 
pious, will the susceptible young mind receive 
impressions more congenial to humanity and 
kindness, generosity and benevolence ; in short 
more of all that ennobles the soul to herself, or 
endears her to others — than from the simple af- 
fecting tale of poor Harley. 

Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. 
Do not you think. Madam, that among the tew 
favoured of Heaven in the structure of their 
minds (for such there certainly are), there may 
be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance 
of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some de- 
gree, absolutety disqualifying for the trujy im- 
portant business of makmg a man's way into 
life. If I am not much mistaken, my gallant 

young friend, A , is very much under 

these disqualifications; and for the young fe- 
males of a family I could mention, well may 
they excite parental solicitude, for I, a comraoo 
acquaintance, or as my vanity will have it, an 
humble friend, have often trembled for a turn ol 
mind which may render them eminently happy 
— or peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses late- 
ly ; but as I have got the most hurried season 
of excise business over, I hope to have more lei- 
sure to traoscrib(i any thing that may show how 
much I have the honour to be, Madam, your% 
&c. 



No. CXLVn. 
FROM MR. CUNNING HAJVL 

Edinburgh, 2bth May, 1790 

MT DEAR BURNS, 

I AM much indebted to you for your last 
friendly, elegant epistle, and it shall make a 
part of the vanity of my composition, to retain 
your correspondence through life. It was re- 
markable your introducing the name of Mist 
Burnet, at a time when she was in such ill 
health ; and I am sure it will grieve your gen- 
tle heart, to hear of hei being in the last stage 
of a consumption. Alas ! that so much beauty, 
innocence, and virtue, should be nipt In tbt 



346 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Wd. Hers was the smile of cheerfulness— -of 
•ensiUHty, not of allurement ; and her elegance 
of manners corresponded witk the purity and 
elevation of her mind. 

How does your friendly muse ? I am sure 
the still retains her affection for you, and that 
you have many of her favours in your posses- 
sion, which I have not seen. I weary much to 
hear from you. 



t beseech you do not forget me. 



I most sincerely hope all your concerns in 
life prosper, and that your roof tree enjoys the 
.jlessine^ of good health. All your friends here 
are well, among whom, and not the hast, is your 
acquaintance, Cleghorn. As for myself, I am 

well, as far as will let a 

man be ; but with these I am happy. 



Wlien you meet with ray very agreeable friend 
J. Synie, give him for me a hearty squeeze, and 
bid, God bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon in 
Edinburgh ? 



No. CXLVIIl. 
TO DR. MOORE. 
Dumfries, Excise- Office, lith Juli/y 1790. 

SIR, 

Coming into town this morning, to attend 
my duty in this office, it being collection-day, I 
met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his 
way to London ; so I take the opportunity of 

writing to you, as franking is at present under 
a tempoiary death. I shall have some snatches 
of leisure through the day, amid our horrid bu- 
siness and bustle, and I shall improve them as 
well as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as 
, as iiiiscellaneous as a news- 
paper, as short a>, a hungry grace-before-meat, 
or as long as a law-paper iu ihe Douglas* cause 
as ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, or as 
unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byremucker's an- 
swer to it ; 1 hope, cousidcriiig circumstances, 
you will forgive it ; and as it will put you to no 
expense of postage, I shall have the less reflec- 
kiun about it. 

I am sadly ungratafu! ia nut returning you 
my thanks for yuur nw^t vj'uable present, 2^e- 
luco. In fact, yuu are iu sume degree blameable 
for my neglect. Yuu uero pleased to express a 
wish Ibr U'y opinion of the uork, wluoh so flat- 
tered liie, that rmtliiu!; Its>. woul I serve my 
aver-weeumg liiucy, than a formal criticism ovi 



the book. In fact, I have gravely planned '. 
comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardsoti, 
and Smollett, in your different qualities and me- 
rits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my 
ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never 
bring the business to bear ; but I am fond ot 
the spirit young Elihu shows in the book of 
Job — *' And I said, I will also declare my opi- 
nion." I have quite disfigured my copy of the 
book with my annotations. I never take it up 
without at the same time taking my pencil, 
and marking with asterisks, parenthesis, &c. 
wherever I meet with an original thought, a 
nervous remark on life and manners, a remark- 
ably well-turned period, or a character sketched 
with uncommon precision. 

Though I shall hardly think of fairly writings 
out my " Comparative View,'* I shall certainly 
trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. 
I have just received from my gentleman, that 
horrid summons in the book of Revelations— 
** That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
debted to the fair author for the book, and not, 
as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of 
the other sex, I should certainly have written to 
the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, 
and my own ideas of the comparative excellence 
of her pieces. I would do this last, not from 
any vanity of thiflking that my remarks could 
be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but 
merely from my own feelings as an author, d» 
leg as I would be done by. 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON. 

MY DEAR SIR, ElUsland, July 16, 1790. 

I RECEIVED a letter from you a long tim« 
ago, but unfortunately as it was in the time ot 
my peregrinations and journey ings through Scot- 
land, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence 
your direction along with it. Luckily my good 
star brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, 
who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours : 
and by his means and mediation I hope to re^ 
place that link which my unfortunate negli- 
gence iMid so unluckily broke in the chain of 
our correspondence. I was the more vexed at 
the vile accident, as my brother William, a jour- 
neyman saddler, has been for some time in Lon- 
don ; and wished above all things for your di- 
lection, that he might have paid his respects to 

his FATHEh's rRIENl). 

His last address he sent me was, " Wm. 

IJtnus, at Mr. Barbers, Saddler, No. 181, 

Strand " I write him by Mr. Kennedy, but 

ue^iecied t iL^k him for your address ; so, if yoH 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



34'; 



Snd a spare half minute, pleaw let my brother 
know by a card where and when he will find 
you, and tht poor fellow will joyfully wait on 
you. as one of the few surviving friends of the 
man whose name, and Christian name too, he 
has the hon ju • to bear. 

The next atter I write you shall be a long 
one. I have much to tell you of '* hair-breadth 
'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach, with 
all the eventful history of a life, the early years 
of which owed so much to your kind tutorage ; 
but this at an hour of leisure- My kindest 
compliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family. 
I am ever, my dear Sir, 

Your obliged friend.* 



• i his letter was communicated tathe Editor by a 
pentleman to whose liberal advice and information he 
IS much indebted, Mr. John Murdoch, the early in- 
itriictor of the poet ; accompanied by the following 
interesting note : — 

London, Hart-Street, Bloomsbury, 28<A Dec. 1807. 

DBAR SIK, 

The following letter, which I lately found am on^j 
mv papers, I copy for your perusal, partly because it 
is Burns's, partly because it makes honourable men- 
tion of my rational Christian friend, his father; and 
likewise because it is rathei flattering to myself. I j 
glorv in no one thing so much as an intimacy with i 
good men ;— the tnendship of others reflects no ho- : 
nour. When I recollect the pleasure, (and I hope be- 1 
nefit;, I receive<l from the conversation of William ' 
Burns, especially when on the Lord's day we walked ; 
together for about two miles, to the house of prayer, ; 
there publicly to adore and praise the Giver of all 
good, I entertain an ardent hope, that together we shall 
'• renew the glorious theme in distant worlds," with 
powers m ore adtqi^ate to the mighty subject, thk ex- j 

UBERANT BFNI FICK.NCE OF THE GREAT CREATOR. 

But to the letter :— 

FROM MR. MURnOCH TO THE BARD, 

GIVING HIM AN ACCOt'NT OF THK DEATH OF 
HIS BROTH (.H WILLIAM. 

Hart-Street, B oOfiisbwy-Sqiiare, London, 

MY DEAR FKIEM), Sept. 4/ A, 1790. 

VouRS of the 16th of July, 1 r<'ceived on the 26th, 
in th afternoon, per favour of my friend Mr. Ken- 
nedy, and at the same lirne was informed that your 
brother was ill Being engaged in business till late 
that evening, I set out next morning to see him, and 
had thought of three or f )ur medical gcntl.men of my 
acquaintmie, to rnie or other of whom 1 might apply 
for ad \ ice, proviile<l it should be necessary. But when 
I went to Mr. Barber'-, to my great astonishment and 
heart-felt grief, I found that my young friend had, on 
Saturday, bi<i an everiastmg farewell to all sublunary 
things. — It wa^ about a fortnight before that he had 
found me out. by Mr. Stevenson's accidentally calling 
at my shop to buy something. We had only one in- 
terview, and that w?s highly entertaining to me in se- 
veral respects. He mentioned some insi ruction 1 had 
given him when very young, to which he said h° 
owed, fn a great measure, the philanthropy he posses- 

ged. He also took uoace of my exhortmg you all, 

when I wrote, about eight years ago, U) the man who, 
oif all mankrnd that 1 ever knew, stoo«l highest in my 
ttteem, " n( t to let go your integrity." — \^u may ea- 
sily conceive that such conversation was both pleasing 
»nd enc uraging to me : I anticipated a deal of ratio, 
nal happiness from future conversations. — Vain are our 
expectations an.i nopcs They are so almost always — 
Perhaps, (nay, certainly), for our good. Were it not 
for di^apponi'ed hopes we could hardly spend a thought 
on another sute of existence, or be in any degree re- 
conciled to the quitting of this < 
I know of no one source of consolation to those who 
have lost young relatives, equal to that of their being 
■f a good disposition, and of a promising character. 



No. CL. 
TO MRS. DI7NLOP. 

DEAR MADAM, 8th AugUSt, 1790. 

After a long day*s toil, plague, and care, 
sit down to write to you. Ask me not why ] 
have delayed it so long ? It was owing to hurry^ 
indolence, and fifty other things ; in short, to 
any thing — but forgetfulness of la plus aimable 
de son sexe. By the bye, you are indebted your 
best courtesy to me for this last compliment ; 
as I pay it from sincere conviction of its trutb 
— a quality rather rare in compliments of these 
grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to yo?/, will ease a little 
my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised 
to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an in- 
timate acqaintance of yours, has given my feel- 
ings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dan- 
gerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride \ 



Be assured, my dear friend, that I cordially sympa- 
thize with you all, and particularly with Mrs. W. 
Bums, who IS undoubtedly one of the most tender and 
affectionate mothers that ever lived. Remember me 
to her in the most friendly manner, when you see her, 
or write. — Please present my best compliments to Mrs. 
R. Bums, and to your brother and sisters. — There is 
no occasion for me" to exhort you to filial duty, and 
to use your united endeavours in rendering the even- 
ing of life as Jomfortable as possible to a mother, whc 
has dedicated so great a part of it in promoting youi 
temporal and spiritual welfare. 

\'our letter to Dr. Moore, 1 delivered at his house, 
and shall most likely know your opinion of Zeleuco, 
the first time I meet with him. 1 wish and hope for 
a long letter. Be j>articular about your mother*! 
health I hope she is too much a Christian to be af- 
flicted above measure, or to sorrow as those who have 
no hope. 

One of the most pleasing hopes I have is to visit 
you all ; but I am commonly disapix)inted in what I 
most ardently wish for. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 

I promised myself a deal of happiness in the con. 
versation of my dear young friend; but my promise* 
of this nature generally prove fallacious. Two visits 
were the utmost that 1 received. At one of them, 
however, he repeated a lesson which 1 had given him 
about twenty years before, when he was a mere child, 
concerning the pity and tenderness due to animals. 
To that lesson, (which it seems was brought to the le- 
vel of his capacity), he declared himself indebted for 
almost all the philanthropy he nossessed 

Let not parents and teachers imagine that it is need- 
less to talk seriously to children. They are sooner fit 
to be reasoned with than is generally thought. Strong 
and indelible impressions are to be made before the 
mind be agitated and ruffled by the numerous train ot 
distracting cares and unruly passions, whereby it ii 
frequently rendered almost unsusceptible of tlie prin- 
ciples and precepts of rational religion and sound mo. 
rality. 

But 1 find myself digressing again. Poor William 
then in the bloom and vigour of youth, caught a nu 
trid fever, and, in a few days, as real chief mourner 
1 followed his remaina to the land of forgetfulness. 
JOt N MURDOCH 



CacMBC 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Ko. CLI. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 8th August, 1790. 

Forgive me my once dear, and ever dear 
Iriend, my seeming negligence. You cannctt 
sit down, and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my 
brains fur an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country grannam at a family christening : 
a bride on the market-day before her marriage ; 



a tavern-keeper at an election dinner ; &c. &c. 
—but the resemblance that hits my fancy best 
is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams 
about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching 
whom he may devour. However, tossed about 
as I am, if I choose (and who would not choose) 
to bind down with the cranipets of attention, 
the brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear 
up the superstructure of Independence, and from 
its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of 
fate. And is not this a '' consummation de- 
voutly to be wished ?*' 

♦' Thy spirit, Independence, let rae share ; 

Lord of the lion- heart, and eagle -eye! 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the btorm that howls along the sky '" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the in- 
troduction of Smollett* s Ode to Independence : 
If you have not seen the poem, I will send it to 
you. How wretched is the man that hangs on 
by the favours of the great. To shrink from 
every digntcy of man, at the approach of a lord- 
y piece ot self-oonsequence, who, amid all his 
tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a crea- 
ture fotn.ed as thou art — and perhaps not no 
well formed as thou art — came into the world 
a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out 
)f it a& all men must, a naked corse*. 



No. CLIL 

FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 1st September, 1790. 
How does my dear friend ? — much I languish 

to hear. 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear ; 



With love of the Muses so strongly still smitten 

I meant this epistle in verse to have written ; 

But from age and infirmity, indolence flows, 

And this, much I fear, will restore me to prose. 

Anon to my business I wish to proceed, 

Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed 

A man of integrity, genius and worth, 

Who soon a performance intends to set forth ; 

A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free. 

Which will weekly appear, by the name of the 

Bee. 
Of this from himself I enclose you a plap 
And hope you will give what assistance you can 
Entangled with business, and haunted with care, 
In which more or less human nature must share, 
Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim, 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 
The Bee, which sucks honey from ev'ry gay 

bloom. 
With some rays of your genius her work may 

illume, 
Whilst the flower whence her honey spontane- 
ously flows. 
As fi-agrantly smells, and as vig*rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations *tis time to con- 
clude, 

And add, your promotion is here understood ; 

Thus free from the servile employ of excise, Sir^ 

We hope stwn to hear you conunence supervisor ; 

You then more at leisure, and free from control, 

May indulge the strong passion that reigns in 
your soul. 

But I, feeble I, must to nature give way ; 

Devoted cold death's and longevity's prey. 

From verses tho' languid my thoughts must un- 
bend, 

Tho' still I remain your affectionate friend, 
THO. BLACKLOCK 



• 1 he preceding letter explains the feelings under 
which this was writttn. The strain of indignant in- 
vective goes on some time longer in the style which 
our bard was too apt to indulge, and of which the 
«»3der has already seen somuch. 



No. CLIII. 



EXTRACT OF A LKTTER 

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, UM October, 1790. 
I LATELY received a letter from our friend 

B — — , — what a charming fellow lost tc 

society — born to great expectations — with su- 
perior abilities, a pure heart and untainted mo- 
rals, his fate in life has been hard indeed — stil! 
I am persuaded he is happy ; not like the gal- 
lant, the gay Lothario, but in the simplicity of 
rural enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the re- 
membrance of " the days of other years." 

I saw Mr. Dunbar put, under the cover oi 
your newspaper, Mr. Wood's Poem on Thom- 
i son. This poem has suggested an idea to me 
' which you alone are capable to execute : — a 
song adapted to each season of the year. The 
j task is difficult, but the theme is c harmimg - 



._! 



t^DRRESPONDENCE. 



34)9 



•hould you succeed, I will undertake to get new 
music worthy of the suhject. What a fine field 
for your imagination, and who is there alive can 
draw so many beauties from Nature and pastoral 
Imagery as yoiirself ? It is, by the way, sur- 
prising that there does not exist, so far as I 
know, a proper song for each season. "Wt \ave 
Bongs on hunting, fishing, skaiting, and one au- 
tumnal song. Harvest Home. As your muse 
is neither spavied nor rusty, you may mount 
the hill of Parnassus, aud return with a sonnet 
in your pocket for every season. For my sug- 
gestions, if I be rude, correct me ; if imperti- 
nent, chastise me ; if presuming, despise me. 
But if you blend all my weaknesses, and pound 
out one grain of insincerity, then am I not 
thy 

Faithful friend, &c. 



No. CLIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

November, 1790. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
news fH)m a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
from you, in return for toe many tidings of sor- 
row which I have received. In this instance 
I most cordially obey the apostle — " Rejoice 
with them that do rejoice" — for me to sing for 
joy is no new thing ; but to preach for joy, as I 
have done in the commencement of this epistle, 
is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I nj- 
ver rose before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy 
— How could such a mercurial creature as a poet, 
lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the 
best news from his best friend. I seized my 
gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- 
pensably necessary, in my left hand, in the mo- 
ment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, 
•tride — quick and quicker — out skipt I among 
the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my 
•oy by retail. To keep within the bounds of 
prone was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more 
elegant, but nut a more sincere compliment to 
the sweet little fellow than T, extempore al- 
most, poured out to him in the following verses. 

(See the poem— On the Btrth of a Posthumous 
Child.) 



I ara much flattered by your approbation of 
my Tarn o* Shunter, which you express in your 
former letter, though, by the Oye, you load me 
in that said letter with accusations heavy and 
many ; to all which I plead not guilty I Your 
book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As 
to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for 
the press, you have only to spell it right, and 



place the capital letters properly ; ts to th« 
punctuation, the printers do that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o' Shanter ready to 
send you by the first opportunity : it is too 
heavy to send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in con- 
sequence of your recommendation, is most zeal- 
ous to serve me. Please favour me soon with 
an account of your good folks ; if Mrs. H. 
is recovering, and the young gentleman doing 
well. 



No. CLV. 
TO CRAUFORD TAIT, Esq. Edikburoh. 

DEAR SIR, Ellisland, Oct. 15, 1790. 

Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance 
the bearer, Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, 
whom I have long known and long loved. His 
father, whose only son he is, has a decent little 
property in Ayrshire, and has bred the young 
man to the law, in which department he comes 
up an adventurer to your good town. I shall 
give you my friend's character in two words 
as to his head, he has talents enough, and more 
than enough for common life ; as to his heart, 
when nature had kneaded the kindly clay that 
composes it, she said, "I can no more." 

You, my good Sir, were born under kinder 
stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well know, 
can enter into the feelings of the young man, 
who goes into life w^ the laudable ambition to 
do something, and to he something among his 
fellow creatures ; but whom the conscioui^ness 
of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and 
wounds to the soul ! 

Even tRe fairest of his virtues are against 
him. That independent spirit, and that inge- 
nuous modesty, qualities inseparable from a no- 
ble mind, ape, with the million, circumstances 
not a little disqualifying. Wliat pleasure is in 
the power of the fortunate and the happy, bj 
their notice and patronage, to brighten the 
countenance and glad the heart of such depress- 
ed youth ! I am not so angry with mankind 
for their deaf economy of the purse :— The 
goods of this world cannot be divided, without 
bei»g lessened — but why be a niggard of that 
which bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, ye* 
takes nothing from our own means of enjoy- 
ment ? We wrap oui-selves up in the cloak o£ 
our own better -fortune, and turn away our 
eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother- 
mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of our 
souls ! 

1 am the worst hand in the world at asking a 
favour. That indirect address, that insinuating 
implication, which, without any positive re- 
quest, plainly expresses your wish, is a talent 
not to be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell m, 
then, for you can. in what periphrasis «f laa 



35C 



BURNS' WORKS. 



g^age, in whatcircumvCiUtion of phrase, I shall 
envelope yet not conceal this plain story. — 
•' My dear Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, 
whom I have the pleasure of introducing to you, 
!« a young lad of your own profession, and a 
gentleman of much modesty and great worth. 
Perhaps it may be in your power to assist him 
in the, to him, important consideration of get- 
ting a place ; but at all events, your notice and 
acquaintance will be a very great acquisition to 
him ; and I dare pledge myself that he will ne- 
ver disgrace your favour." 

You may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such 
a letter from me ; 'tis, 1 own, in the usual way 
of calculating these matters, more than our ac- 
quaintance entitles me t« ; but my answer is 
short : Of all the men at your time of life, whom 
I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most acces- 
sible on the side on which I have assailed you. 
You are very much altered indeed from what 
you were when I knew you, if generosity point 
the path you will not tread, or humanity call to 
you in vain. 

As to myself, a being to whose interest I be- 
lieve you are still a well-wisher ; I am here, 
breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and 
rhyming now and then. Every situation has its 
share of the cares and pains of life, and my situ- 
ation I am persuaded has a full ordinary allow- 
ance of its pleasures and enjoyments. 

My best compliments to youi father and Miss 
Tait. If you have an opportunity, ple;ise re- 
member me in the solemn league and covenant 
of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. I am a 
wretch for not writing her ; but I am so ha>k- 
neyed with self-accusation in that way, ti at 
my consi.ence lies in my bosom with scarce the 
sensibility of "an oyster in its shell. Where is 
Lady M'Kenzie? wherever she is, God bless 
her ! I likewise beg leave to trouble you with 
compliments to Mr. Wm Hamilton ; ,Mrs. Ha- 
milton and family ; and Mrs. Chalmers, when 
you are in that country. Should you meet 
with Miss Niramo, please remember me kindly 
to her. 



No. CLVI. 



TO 



-^eak sir. 

Whether in the way of my trade, I can be 
of any service to the Rev. Doctor,* is I fear very 
doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of 
•even bull -hides and a plate of brass, which al- 
together set Hector's utmost force at defiance. 
Mas ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doc- 
tor's foes are as securely armed as A xx was. 
Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma- 
levolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly bound 
in a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good 
God, Sir ! to such a shield, humour is the peck 

• Dr. M'Gill of Ayr. 



of a sparrow, and satire v.M p«p-gun of a schoo* 
boy. Creation-disgracing siekrats such as ther 
God only can mend, and the devil only can pu- 
nish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, 1 
wish they had all but one neck. J 6»el impotenl 
as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! O for a 
withering curse to blast the germins of their 
wicked machinations. O for a poisonous torna- 
do, winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, tfl 
sweep the spreading crop of their villainous con- 
trivances to the lowest hell ! 



LETTERS, 1791. 

No. CLVII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellhland, 2SdJanuari/, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear friend ! As many of the good things of 
this life, as is consistent with the usual mixture 
of good and evil in the cup of Being ! 

I have just finished a poem, which you will 
receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the way 
of tales. 

I have, these several months, been hammer 
ing ;it an elegy on the amiable and accomplish 
ed Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no 
farther than the following fragment, on which, 
please give me your strictures. In all kinds ol 
poetic composition, I set great store by your 
opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poe- 
try of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set 
nioie value on the infallibility of the Holy Fa- 
ther than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text ver- 



ELEGY 

ON THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MOKBOBDO 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize. 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow. 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ; 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown. 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best » 
known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves , 
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery short ; 

Ye woodland choir that chaunt yiur idle loves. 
Ye cease to charm ; Eliza is nc more. 

Ye heathy wastes inmix'd with reedy fens, 
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and iush« 
stor'd. 

Ye rugged cliffs o*erha>Jging dreary glensv 
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



351 



Friroet whose cjmb'rous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ; 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail. 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride. 
And virtue's light that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide. 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 



Lei me hear from y«ni soon. Adieu ! 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

nth January, 17P1. 
Take these two guineas, and place tl ver 

against that account of yours .ich 

has gagged my mouth the*<e five or six mu..chs ! 
I can as little write good things as apologies to 
the man I owe money to. O the supreme curse 
of making three guineas do the business of five ! 
Not all the labours of Hercules ; not all the He- 
brews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage were 
such an insuperable business, such an 



task ! ! Poverty ! thou half-sister of death, thou 
cousin-german of hell ! where shall I find force 
of execration equal to the amplitude of thy de- 
merits ? Oppressed by thee, the venerable an- 
cient, grown hoary in the practice of every vir- 
tue, laden with years and wretchedness, im- 
plores a little — little aid to support his exist- 
ence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, 
whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; 
and is by hira denied and insulted. Oppressed 
by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart 
glows with independence, and melts with sensi- 
bility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes 
in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of ar- 
rogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, 
the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition 
plants him at the tables of the fashionable and 
polite, must see, in suffering silence, his remark 
fleglected, anri his person despised, while shal- 
low greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall 
meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it 
orly tlie family of worth that have reason to 
Couiplai»i of thee ; the children of folly and vice, 
though in common with thee, the offspring of 
evil, smart equally under thy rod. Owing to 
thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and ne- i 
glected education, is condemned as a fool for his ' 
dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy \ 
wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to 
want : and when his unprincipled necessities ; 
Irive him to disl.onest practices, he is abhorred 
u a misce^nt, and perishes by the justice of his , 



country. But far otherwise is the h ot the man 
of family and fortune. His ea 'ly follies and ex- 
travagance, are spirit and fire ; his consequent 
wants, are the embarrassments of an honest fel- 
low ; and when, to remedy tht matter, he has 
gained a legal commission to plunder distant 
provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he re* 
turns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine 
and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and 

dies a and a lord. — Nay, worst of allj 

alas for helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, 
who has shivered at the corner of the street, 
waiting to earn the wages of carnal prostitution, 
is left neglected and insulted, ridden Jown by 
the chariot-wheels of the coroneted rip, hurry- 
ing on to the guilty assignation : she, who, 
without the same necessities to plead, riotf 
nightly in the same guilty tJ-ade. 

Well ! divines may siiy of it what they pleasCf 
but execration is to the mind, what phlebotomj 
is to the body ; the vital sluices of both art 
wonderfully relieved by their respective 



No. CLIX. 

FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 

DEAR SIR, Edinburgh J \*4th March, 1791 
Mr. Hill yesterday put into my hands & 
sheet of Grose's Antiquities, containing a poem 
of yours, entitled Tarn o' Shatiier, a tale. Th* 
very high pleasure I have received from the 
perusal of this admirable piece, I feel, demands 
the warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells me 
he is to send off a packet for you this day ; I 
cannot resist therefore putting on paper what I 
must have told you in person, had 1 met with 
you after the recent perusal of your tale, which 
is, that I feel I owe you a debt, which, if un- 
discharged, would reproach me with ingrati- 
tude. I have seldom in my life tasted of highei 
enjoyment from any work of genius, than I have 
received from this composition ; and I am much 
mistaken, if this poem alone, had you never 
written another syllable, would not have been 
sufficient to have transmitted your name down 
to posterity with high reputation. In the in 
troductory part, where you paint the charactei 
of your hero, and exhibit him at the ale-house 
ingle, with his tippling cronies, you have deli- 
neated nature with a humour and naivete, that 
would do honour to Matthew Prior ; but when 
you describe the unfortunate orgies of tht 
witches' sabbath, and the hellish scenery n 
which they are exhibited, you display a po'-^-^j 
of imagination, that Shakspe&:« himself could 
not have exceeded. I kno»v not that I have 
ever met with a picture of more horrib.e fdw.j 
than the following : 

" Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That showed the dead in their last di 



359 



BURNS WORKS. 



And by some devilisli cantrip slight. 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 

But when I came to the succeeding' lines, my 

blood ran cold within me : 

* A knife a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft : 
The grey hair's yet stuck to the heft." 

And here, after the two following lines, " Wi' 
mair o* horrible and awfu'," &c. the descriptive 
part might perhaps have been better closed, than 
the four lines which succeed, which, though 
good in themselves, yet as they derive all their 
merit from the satire they contain, are here 
rather misplaced among the circumstances of 
pure horror.* The initiation of the young 
witch is most happily described — the effect of 
her charms, exhibited in the dance, on Satan 
himself — the apostrophe—" Ah, little thought 
thy reverend grannie !" — the transport of Tam, 
who forgets his situation, and enters completely 
into tke spirit of the scene, are all features of 
high merit, in this excellent composition. The 
only fault it possesses, is, that the winding up, 
or conclusion of the story, is not commensurate 
to the interest which is excited by the descrip- 
tive and characteristic painting of the preceding 
p;irts. — The preparation is fine, but the result 
is not adequjite. But for this, perhaps, you 
have a good apology — you stick to the popular 
fcile. 

And now that I have got out my mind, and 
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
I owed yuu, let me end this desultory scroll by 
an a<ivice : — You have proved your talent for 
a s[)ecies of composition, in which but a very 
few of our own poets have succeeded — Go on 
— write more tales in the same style ; you will 
eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with equal 
wit, equal power of numbers, and equal naivetS 
of expression, you have a bolder, and more vi- 
gorous imagination. 

I am, dear Sir, with much esteem, 
Yours, &c. 



Wo. CLX. 
TO THE SAME. 

UR, 

Nothing less than the unfortunate accident 
I have met with, could have prevented my 
grateful acknowledgments fov your letter. His 
own favourite poem, and that an essay in a 
walk of the muses entirely new to him, where 
consequently his hopes and fears were in the 
most anxious alarm for his success in the at- 
tetiipc ; to have that poem so much applauded 
oy one of the first judges, was the most delici- 
ous vibration that ever trilled along the heart- 



• Our baid profited by Mr. Tytler'« criticism, and 
Apunged ^'-e iOHx lines accordingly. 



strings of a poor poet. However, prov'dencfe 
to keep up the proper proportion of evil vvitt 
the good, which, it seems is necessary in thii 
sublunary state thought proper to check my 
exultation by a very serious misfortune. A 
day or two after I received your letter, mjr 
horse came down with me and broke my right 
arm. As this is the first service my arm has 
done me since its disaster, I find myself unable 
to do more than just in general terms to thank 
you for this additional instance uf your patron- 
age and friendship. As to the faults you de« 
tected in the piece, they are truly there ; one 
of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall 
cut out ; as to the falling off" in the catastrophe, 
for the reason you justly adduce, it cannot easily 
be remedied. Your approbation. Sir, has glveq 
me such additional spirits to persevere in this 
species of poetic composition, that I am already 
revolving two or three Btories in my fancy. If 
I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind 
of embodied form, it will give me an additional 
opportunity of assuring you how much I have 
the honour to be, &c. 



No. CLXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 7th February, 1791. 

When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have been 
a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve 
me in writing ; you will allow that it is too 
good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful 
silence. I am now getting better, and am able 
to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable 
ease ; as I cannot think that the most poetic 
genius is able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you 
my having an idea of composing an elegy on 
the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. I had the 
honour of being pretty well acquainted with 
her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss ol 
an acquaintance, as when I heard that so amia- 
ble and accomplished a piece of God's works 
was no more. I have as yet gone no farther 
than the following fragment, of which please let 
nae have your opinion. You know that elegy 
is a subject so much exhausted, that any new 
idea on the business is not to be expected ; 'tie 
well if we can place an old idea in a new light. 
How far I have succeeded as to this last, you 
will judge from what follows : — ( See p. 347, 
then this additional verse), 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 
care ! 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree. 
So from it ravaged, leaves it bleak and ban. 

I have proceeded no further 



Tour kind lettei, witli your kind remem- 
btance of your god-son, oame safe. This last, 
Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy I have of a long time seen. He 
is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox 
ind measles over, has cut several teeth, and yet 
never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his 
bowels 

I am truly happy to hear that the " little 
floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that 
the " mother plant" is rather recovering her 
drooping head. Soon and well may her " cruel 
wounds" be healed ! I have written thus far 
with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a 
'ittle abler you shall hear farthe».- 'rom, 

MadaiJi, yoUi-Sj &•. 



Na CLXIL 
TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

ACKNOWtEDGING A PRESENT OF A VALUABLE 
SNUFF-BOX, WITH A FINE PICTURE OF MARY, 
QUEEN OP SCOTS, ON THE LID. 

MT LADT, 

Nothing less tnau the unlucky accident of 
having lately broken my right arm, could have 
prevented me, the moment I received your lady- 
ship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from re- 
turning you my warmest and most grateful ac- 
knowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I shall 
set it apart ; the symbols of religion shall only 
be more sacred. In the moment of poetic com- 
position, the box shall be my inspiring genius. 
When I would breathe the comprehensive wish 
of benevolence for the happiness of others, I 
shall recollect your ladyship ; when I would in- 
terest ray fancy in the distresses incident to hu- 
Boanity, I shall remember the unfortunate Mary. 



No. CLXm. 



TO MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY. 

MADAM, 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary, 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the eu- 
closed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic 
sQccess, I know not : but it has pleased me be- 
yond any effort of my muse for a good while 
past ; on that account I enclose it particularly 
to you. It is true, the purity of my motives 
may be suspected. I am already deeply indebt- 
ed to Mr. G 's goodness ; and, what in 

tie usual waua of men, is of infinitely greater 



importance, l\Ir. G, can dc me service of im 

utmost importance in time to come. I was 
born a pnor dt g ; aind however I may occasiua^ 
ally pick ;i better bone than I used to do, I 
know I must live and die poor ; but I will in- 
dulge the flattering faith that my poetry wiU 
considerably outlive my poverty ; and witnou 
any fustain affectation of spirit, I can promise and 
affirm, that it must be no ordinary craving o. 
the latter shall ever make me do any thing ii»« 
jurious to the honest fame of the former. What* 
ever may be my failings, for failings are a pari 
of human nature, may they ever be those of a 
generous heart, and an independent mind. It 
^.s no fault of mine that I was born to depen- 
dence; nor is it Mr. G *s chiefest praise 

that he cat: command influence ; but it his me- 
rit to bestow, not only with \iit kindness of « 
brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman , 
and I trust it shall be mine, to receive with 
thankfulness and rereember with undimiaished 
gratitude. 



No. CLXIV. 



FROM THE REV. (NOW 
BAIRD. 



rCIFAL) 



SIR, LondoT,, 9th February, 1791. 

I TROUBLE you with this letter, to inform 
you that I am in hopes of being able very soon 
to bring to the press a new edition (long since 
talked of) of Michael JBruce's Poems. The 
profits of the edition are to go to his mother— 
a woman of eighty years of age — poor and help- 
less. T -9 poems are to be published by sub- 
scriptio- and it may be possible, I think, to 
make out a 2s. 6d. or 8s. volume, with the as- 
sistance of a few hitherto unpublished verses, 
which I have got fiom the mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view m writing to 
you, is not merely to inform you of these facts, 
it is to solicit the aid of your name and pen in 
support of the scheme. The reputation of Bruce 
is already high with every reader of classica' 
taste, and 1 shall be anxious to guard against 
tarnishing his character, by allowing any new 
poems to appear that may lower it. For this 
puri)09e, the MSvS. I am in possession of, have 
been submitted to the revision of some whose 
critical talents I can trust to, and I mean still to 
submit them to others. 

May I beg to kuow, therefore, if you will 
take the trctible of perusing the MSS. — of giv- 
ing your opiaion, and suggesting what curtail- 
ments, alterations, or amendments, occur to you 
as advisable ? Ana will you allow us to let it be 
known, tliat a iew lines by yr u will be added 
to the volume ? 

I know the extent of this request. — It ii 
bold to make it. But I have this consolation, 
that though yoi» see it pioper to refuse it, yo:t 



354 



BURNS' WORK& 



irill not blame me for having mao», ; you will 
<ee my apology in the motivt. 

May I ju8t add, that Michael Bruce is one in 
whose company, from his past appearance, you 
would not, I am convinced, blush to be found ; 
and as I would submit every line of his that 
should now be published, to your own criti- 
cisms, you would be assured that nothing dero- 
gatory either to him or you, would be admitted 
in that appearance he may make in future. 

You have already paid an honourable tribute 
to kindred genius in Fergusson — I fondly hope 
that the mother of Bruce will experience your 
patronage. 

I wish to have the subscription papers circu- 
lated by the Hth of March, Bruce's birth-day; 
which, I understand, some friends in Scotland 
talk this year of observing — at that time it will 
be resolved, I imagine, to place a plain, humble 
stone over his grave. This, at least, I trust 
you will agree to do — to furnish, in a few coup- 
lets, an inscription for it. 

On those points may I solicit an answer as 
early as possible ; a short delay might disap- 
point us in procuring that relief to the mother, 
which is the object of the whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me under 
cover to the Duke of Athole, London. 



appellation), that by way of some balance, how 
ever trifling, in the account, I am fain to do %nj 
good that occurs in my very limited power to a 
fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose o\ 
clearing a little the vista of retrospection. 



P. S. — Have you ever seen an engraving 
published here some time ago frojn one of your 
poems, " O' thou Pale Orb.^' If you have 
not, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to 
vou. 



No. CLXV. 
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD, 

IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in 
such a hesitating style, on the business of poor 
Biuce? Don't I know, and have I not felt, 
the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh 
is heir to ? You shall have your choice of all 
the unpublished poems I have ; and had your 
letter had my direction s« as to have reached 
me sooner (it only came to my hand this mo- 
ment), I should have directly put you out of 
eus|)ense on the subject. I only ask, that some 
prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as 
the subscription bills, may bear, that the publi- 
cation is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mo- 
ther, I would not put it in the power of igno- 
rance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I 
clubbed a share in the work from mercenary 
motives. Nor need you give me credit for any 
remarkable generosity in my part of the busi- 
ness. I have such a host of peccadilloes, fail- 
ings, follies, and backslidings (any body but my- 
•elf might perhaps give some of them a woise 



No. CLXVI 
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON 
Ellisland, near Dumfries, lith Feb. 1791 

SIR, 

You must, by this time, have set me down 
as one of the most ungrateful of men. You 
did me the honour to present me with a book 
which does honour to science and the intellectual 
powers of man, and I have not even so much aa 
acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, 
you yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as 
I was by your telling me that you wished to 
have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual 
enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity 
is one of the sins that most easily beset me, put 
it into my head to ponder over the performance 
with the look-out of a critic, and to draw up 
forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures on a 
composition, of which, in fact, until I read the 
book, I did not even know the first principles. 
I own. Sir, that at first glance, several of your 
propositions startled me as paradoxical. That 
the martial clangor of a trumpet had something 
in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, 
than the twingle twangle of a Jews' harp ; that 
the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the 
half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of the 
dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant 
than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that 
from something innate and independent of all 
association of ideas ; — these I had set down as 
irrefra3;ible, orthodox truths, until perusing your 
book shook my faith. — In short. Sir, except 
Euclid's Elements of Geometry, which I made 
a shift to unravel by my father's fire-side, in the 
winter evening of the first season I held the 
plough, I never read a book which gave me 
such a quantum of information, and added so 
much to my stock of ideas as your " Essays on 
the Principles of Taste.'' One thing. Sir, yop 
must forgive my mentioning as an unaommo 
merit in the work, I mean the language. Tt» 
clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of style, 
sounds something like a contradiction in terms ; 
but you have convinced me that they are quite 
compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my 
late composition. The one in print is my fii»* 
essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am. Sir, Uc 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



355 



No. CtXVII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

EUisland, 28th February, 1791. 

I DO not know, Sir, whether you are a sub- 
Krihcr to Grose*s Antiquities of Scotland If 
van are, the enclosed poem will not be altoge- 
ther new to yon. Captain Grose did me the 
favour to send me a dozen copies of the proof- 
sheet, of which this is one. Should you have 
read the piece before, still this will answer the 
principal end I have in view : it will give me 
another opportunity of thanking you for all your 
goodness to the rustic bard ; and also of show- 
ing you, that the abilities you have been pleas- 
ed to commend and patronize are still employed 
in the way you wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tri- 
bute to the memory of a man I loved much. 
Poets have in this the same advantage as Ro- 
man Catholics ; they can be of service to their 
friends after they have past that bourne where 
all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. 
Whether, after all, either the one or the other 
be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very 
problematical ; but I am sure they are highly 
gratifying to the living : and as * very orthodox 
text, I forget where in Scripture, says, *' what- 
•oever is not of faith, is sin ;*' so say I, what- 
soever is not detrimental to society, and is of 
positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all 
good things, and oujjht to be received and cn- 
••yed by his creatures with thankful delight. 
As almost all my religious tenets origmate from 
my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the 
idea, that I can still keep up a tender inter- 
course with the dearly beloved friend, or still 
more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to 
the world of spirits. 

The biilkd on Queen Mary was begun while 
I was busy with Percy's Reliqiies of English 
Poetry. By the way, how ranch is every 
honest heart, whith his a tincture of Caledonian 
prejudice, obliged to you for your glorious story 
ef Buchanan and Targe. 'Twas an unequivocal 
proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe 
the victory. I should have been mortified to 
the ground if you had uot. 



/ have just read over, once more of many 
times, your Zeluco. I marked with my pen- 
cil, as I went along, every passage that pleased 
me particularly above the rest ; and one, or 
two, I think, which, with humble deference, I 
am disposed to think unequal to the merits of 
the book. I have sometimes thought to tran- 
scribe these marked passages, or at least so much 
of them as to point where they are, and send 
them to you. Original strokes that strongly 
depict the huJi'an heart, is your and Fielding's 
province, beyond iny other novelist I have ever 
perused. Richard.son indsed might perhaps be 
ixoepted ; but, unhappily, his drat'^atis per- 



sonee are beings of some other world ; and how- 
ever they maj^ captivate the u jexpcriencetl, ro- 
mantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever^ 
in proportion as we have made human nature 
our study, dissatisfy our riper minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a 
mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
lately had the interest to get myself ranked on 
the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet 
employed as such, but in a few years I shall ifall 
into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I 
have had an immense loss in the death of the 
Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from whom aL 
my fame and good fortune took its rise. Inde- 
pendent of my grateful attachment to him, 
which was indeed so strong that it pervaded 
my very soul, and was entwined with the thread 
of my existence ; eo soon as the prince's friends 
had got in (and every dog, you know, has his 
day), my getting forward in the excise wculd 
have been an easier business than otherwise it 
will be. Though this was a consummation de- 
voutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can 
live and rhyme as I am ; and as to my boys 
poor little fellows I if I cannot place them on 
as high an elevation in life as I could wish, I 
shall, if I am favoured so much of the Disposer 
of events as to see that period, fix them on as 
broad and independent a basis as possible. A- 
mong the many wise adages which have been 
treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is 
one of the best. Better be the head of the com 
monalty, as the tail o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which, however 
interesting to me, is of no manner of conse- 
quence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem 
on the other page, and close this with assuring 
you how sincerely I have the hoQOUr to ht, 
yours, &c. 

{Beauteous Rose- Bud, p. 66.) • 



No. CLXVIII. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM 

12th March, 1791. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your stric 
tures, let me have them. For my own part, 
thing that I have just composed, always appears 
through a double portion of that partial medium 
in which an author will ever view his own 
works. I believe, in general, novelty has some- 
thing in it that inebriates the fancy, and not 
unfrequently dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, 
as usual, with an aching heart. A striking 
instance of this might be adduced, in the revo- 
lution of many a hymeneal houoymooa. Bui 



ii 



S56 



BURNS WORKS. 



lesi I 8inlc into stupid prose, and so sacrilegious- 
ly intrude on the office of my parish ptiest, I 
shall fill up the pisfe in my own way, and give 
you another song of my late composition, which 
will appear, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well 
as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air. 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes home. 
When political combustion ceases to be the ob- 
ject of princes and patriots, it then, you know, 
becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets. 

(-See Songs, p. 236). 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your 
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how 
much you would oblige me, if, by the charms 
of your delightful voice, you would give my 
honest effusion to " the memory of joys that are 
past," to the few friends whom you indulge in 
that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I 
hear the clock has intimated the near approach 
of 

" That hour o' night's black arch the key- 
stane." — 

So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, 
and delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do 
you like this thought in a ballad, I have just 
now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be: 

For far in the west is he I lo'e best — 
The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! 



Good night, once more, and God bless you ! 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZIEL,* 

FACTOR, FINDLAVSTON. 

Ellisland, March 19, 1791. 

iS.V DEAR SIR, 

I HAVE taken the liberty to frank this letter 
to you, as it encloses an id.e poem of mine. 



which I send you ; and God knows you may 
perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read i 
through. Not that this is my own opinion ; but 
an author, by the time he has composed and 
corrected his work, has quite pored away all 
his powers of critical discrimination. 

I can easily guess from my own heart, wha 
you have felt on a late most melancholy event. 
God knows what I have suflfered, at the loss o\ 
my best friend, my first, my dearest patron and 
benefactor ; the man to whom I owe all that I 
am and have I I am gone into mourning for 
him, and with more sincerity of grief than I 
fear some will, who by nature's ties ought t« 
feel on the occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you indeed, 
to let me know the news of the noble family, 
how the poor mother and the tw. sisters sup- 
port their loss. 1 had a packet of poetic baga- 
telles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw 
the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the 
same channel that the honoured remains of my 
noble patron, are designed to be brought to the 
family burial place. Dare I trouble you to let 
me know privately before the day of interment, 
that I may cross the country, and steal among 
the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my 
ever revered benefactor ? It will oblige me be- 
yond expression. 



No. CL. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

DEAR SIR, London, 29th March, 1791. 

Your letter of the 28th of February I recei- 
ved only two days ago, and this day I had the 
pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr. Baird, a 
the Duke of Athole's, who had been so obliging 
as to transmit it to me, with the printed verses 
on AUoivay Church, the Elegy on Captain 
Henderson, and the Epitaph. There are many 
poetical beauties in the former : what I particu- 
larly admire are the three striking similes from 

" Or like the snow falls in the rivw,'* 

and the eight lines which begin with 

'* By this time he was cross the ford ;'* 

so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious im- 
pressions of the country. And the twenty-two 
lines from 

" Coffins stood round like open presses,** 



• Tbis g ntleman, the factor, or steward, of Bums's 
noble friend, LordGlencairn, with a view to encourage 
a second edition of the poems, laid the volume before 
his lordship, with such an account of the rustic bard's 
situation and prospects as from his slender acquaint- 
ance with him he could furnish The result, as com- 
municated to Burns by Mr. Dalziel, is highly creditable 
to the character of Lord Glencaim. After reading the 
Dook, his lordship declared that its merits greatly ex- 
ceeded his expectation, and he took it with him as a 
Hterary curiosity to Edinburgh. He repeated his 



wishes to be of service to Burns, and desired Mr. Dal. 
ziel to inform him, that m patronizing the book, ush- 
ering it with effect into the world, or treating with 
the Dooksellers, he would most willingly give every 
aid in his power ; adding his request that Burns would 
take the earliest opportunity of letting him know in 
what way or manner he could best further his interest* 
He also expressed a wish to see some of the unpul/ 
lished manuscripts, with a view to establishing his cha 
racter with the world. — Cromek 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



35? 



which, in my opinion, are equal to the ingre- 
dients of Shakspeare's cauldron iu Macbeth. 

As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it con- 
sists in the very graphical description of the ob- 
jects belonging to the country in which the poet 
writes, and which none but a Scottish poet 
could have described, and none but a real poet, 
and a close observer of Nature, could have io 
described. 



There ia something original, and to me wonder- 
fully pleasing, in the Epitaph. 

I remembei- you once hinted before, what you 
"^peat in your last, that you had made some ^e- 
nr.irks on Zclt/co, on the iriargin. I should be 
very glad to see them, and regret you did not 
lend them Itefore the last edition, which is just 
published. Pray transcribe them for me, I sin- 
cerely value yiiur opinion very highly, and pray 
Jo not suppress one of those in which you cen- 
iure the sentiment or expression. Trust me it 
will break no squares between us — I am not 
ikin to the Bishop of Grenada. 

I must now mention what has been on my 
mind for some time : I cannot help thinking 
you imprudent iu scattering abroad so mauy 
copies of your verses. It is most natural to 
give a few to confidential friends, particularly 
to those who are connected with the subject, 
or who are perhaps themselves the subject, but 
tkis ought to be done under promise not to give 
other copies. Of the poem you sent me on 
Queen Mary, I refused every solicitation for 
copies, but I lately saw it in a newspaper. My 
motive for cautioning you on this subject is, 
that I wish to engage you to collect all your 
fugitive pieces, not alrejdy printed, and after 
they have been re-considered, and polished to 
the utmost of your power, I would have you 
publish them by another subscription ; iu pro- 
moting of which I will exert myself with plea- 
sure. 

In your future compositions, I wish you 
would use the modern EngHsh. You have 
shown your powers in Scottish sufficiently. 
AlthfMigh in certain subjects it gives additional 
lest to the humour, yet it is lost to the Eng- 
I lish ; and why should you write only for a part 
of the island, when you can command the ad- 
miration of the whole. 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop of Dunlop, I Injg to be affectionately 
remembered to her. She nmst not judge of the 
warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by the 
number of my letters ; I hardly ever write a line 
but on business : and I do not know that I 
hould have scribbled all this to you, but for the 
business part, that is, to instigate you to a new 
publication ; and to tell you that when you 
think you have a sufficient number to make a 
volume, you should set your friends on getting 
•ubscriptions. I wish I could have a few hours 
conversation with you — I have many things to 
tay whi<*h I cannot write. If I ever go* to Scot- 



land, I will let you know, that you may meet 
me at your own house, or my frieud Mrs. Ha- 
milton's, or both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, &c- 



No. CLI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Ellisland, llth April, 1791. • 
I AM once more able, my honoured friend, to 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many instances of your friendship, and particu- 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster 
that my evil genius had in store for me. How- 
ever, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — for 
on Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made 
me a present of a fine boy ; rather stouter but 
not so handsome as your god-son was at his time 
of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake 
to be my chef (Voeuvre in that species of manu- 
facture, as I look on Tarn o' Shanter to be my 
standard performance in the poeti<tal line. 'Tig 
true, both the one and the other discover a spic« 
of roguish waggery, that might, perhaps, be aa 
well spared ; but then they also show, in my «- 
pinion, a force of genius, and a finishing polish, 
that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns 
is getting stout again, and laid as lustily abou«' 
her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the 
corn-ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and 
blessing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are 
bred among the hay and heather. We cannot 
hope for that highly polished mind, that charm- 
ing delicacy of soul, which is found among the 
female world in the more elevated stations of 
life, and which is certainly by far the most be« 
witching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. 
It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that 
where it can be had in its native heavenly pu- 
rity, unstained by some one or other of the 
many shades of aflfettation, and unalloyed by 
some one or other of the many species of ca- 
price, I declare to Heaven, 1 should think it 
cheaply purchased at the expense of every other 
earthly good ! But as this angelic creature is, 
lam afraid, extseratly rare in any station and 
rank of life, and totally denied to such an hum- 
ble one as mine; we meaner mortals must put 
up with the next rank of female excellence— 
as fine a figure and face we can produce as any 
rank of life whatever ; rustic, native grace ; un- 
affected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature' 
mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste; a sim- 
plicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because unac« 
quainted with, the crooked ways of a selfislv 
interested, disingenuous world ; — and the dear- 
est charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetness 
of disposition, and a generous warmth of heurl, 
grateful for love on our part, and ardently glow- 
ing with a more than equal return ; theM, 
wit/:i a healthy frame, a sound vigorous coasti 



55S 



BJRNS' WORKS. 



hition, wliicl. your high ranks can scarcely ever 
hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woiiian 
in my l.umble walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm has 
yet made. Do, let me hear by first post, how 
eher petit Monsieur comes on with his small- 
pox. May Almighty Goodness preserve and re- 
store him ! 



No. CLII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

WthJune, 1791. 

Lit me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
in behalf of the gentleman, who waits on you 
with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, 
principal schoolmaster there, and is at present 

suffering severfly under the of 

one or two powerful individuals of his em- 
ployers. He is accused of harshness to . 

. . that were placed under his care. 
God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility 
and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, 
when a booby father presents him with his 
booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays 
of science, in a fellow's head whose skull is im< 
pervious and inaccessible by any other way 
than a positive fracture with a cudgel ; a fellow 
whom, in fact, it savours of impiety to attempt 
making a scholar of, as he has been marked a 
olockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty 
fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are, the mi- 
nisters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- 
burgh, and as the business comes now before 
them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every 
thing in his power to serve the interests of a 
man of genius and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know 
some good fellows among the magistracy and 

council, but 

particularly, you have much to say with a re- 
verend gentleman to whom you have the ho- 
nour of being very nearly related, and whom 
his country and age have hid the honour to 
produce. I need not name the historian of 
Charles V.* I tell him, through the medium 
of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a 
gentleman who will not disgrace even his pa- 
tronage. 1 know the merits of the cause tho- 
roughly, and say it, that my friend is falling 
a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance, and . 

God help the children of I lependence! 
Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and too 
often, alas 1 almost unexceptionably, received by 
their friends with disrespect and reproach, under 
the thin disguise ot cold civility and humiliating 
advice. O to be a stv ly savage, stalking in 
the pride of his independence, amid the solitary 



* Dr. RobcrtMin was uncle to Mr. Cuuninc^ham. 



wilds of his deserts, rather than in civilized ilfe, 
helplessly to tremble for a subsistencfe, precari- 
ous as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! Every 
man has his virtues, and no man is without hia 
failings ; and curse on that privileged plain- 
dealiiig of friendship, which in the hour of my 
calamity, cannot reach forth the helping hand 
without at the same time pointing out those 
failings, and apportioning them their share in 
procuring my present distress. My friends, for 
such the world calls ye, and such ye think youi 
selves to be, pass by virtues if you please, but 
do, also, spare my follies : the first will witness 
in my breast for themselves, and the last will 
give pain enough to the ingenuous mind with- 
out you. And since deviating more or less from 
the paths of propriety and rectitude, must be 
incident to human nature, do thou, fortune, 
put it in my power, always from myself, and 
of myself, to bear the consequences of those 
errors. I do not want to be independent that 
I may sin, but I want to be independent in my 
sinning. 

To return in this rambiing letter to the sub- 
ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, 
Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of- 
fices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and 
his gratitude will merit the other. I lon^ much 
to hear from you. Adieu. 



No. CLIII. 

FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN.' 

Dryburgh Abbey, Mlh June, 1791. 
Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr 
Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust 
of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of Sep- 
tember ; for which day perhaps his muse may 
inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose 
Mr. Burns should, leaving the N'ith, go acrosi 
the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest 
point from his farm — and, wandering along the 
pastoral banks of Thomson's puie parent stream, 
catch inspiration on the devious walk, till he 
finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dry- 
burgh. There the commendator will give hin 
a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at 
the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar 
of Caledonian virtue. This poetical perambu 
lation of the Tweed, is a thought of the lat*» 
Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Lord Minto's, follow 
ed out by his acct inplished grandson, the pre 
sent Sir Gilbert, who, having been with I ord 
Buchan lately, the project was renewed, an« 
will, they hope, be executed in the manner fC9 
posed. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



359 



No. CLIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

MT LORD, 

Language sinks under the a.-dour of roy 
feelings, when I would thank your lordship for 
the honour you have done me in inviting me 
to make one at the coronation of the bust of 
Thomfton. In my first enthusiasmt in reading 
the card you did me the honour to write me, I 
overlooked every obstacle, and determined to go ; 
but I fear it will not be in my power. A week 
or two's absence, in the very middle of my har- 
vest, is what I much doubt I dare not venture 
on. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occa- 
sion : but who would write after Collins ? I 
read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, 
and despaired. — I got indeed to the le«gth of 
three or four stanzas, in the way of address to 
the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. 
T shall trouble your lordship, with the subjoin- 
ed copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be 
but too convincing a proof how unequal I am 
to the task. However, it affords me an oppor- 
tunity of approaching your lordship, and declar- 
ing how sincerely and gratefully I have the ho- 
nour to be, &c. 

(Seep.btt,) 



No. CLV. 



TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN, 

CABB OF WM. KENNEDY, ESQ. MANCHESTER. 

Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791. 

MV DEAR SLOAK, 

Suspense is worse than disappointment, for 
that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now 
learn that Mr. Ballantine does not choose to in- 
terfere more in the business. I am truly sorry 
for it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner, 
but you will please to recollect that you omit- 
ted one little necessary piece of information ; — 
your address. 

However you know equally well, my hurried 
life, indolent temper, and strength of attach- 
ment. It must be a longer period than the 
ongest life " in the world's hale and undege- 
nerate days," that will make m« forget so dear 
a frien 1 as Mr. Sloiin. I ain prodigal enough 
St times, but I will not part with such a trea- 
•ore a.s that. 

I can easily enter into the emharra* of your 
Oresent situation. You know mv favouiite quo 
tation from Young — 



" On Reason build Resolvx 

That column of true majesty in man.*' 



And that other favourite one ftova Thrin^son* 
Alfred— 

** What proves the hero truely great. 
Is, never, never to despair." 

Or, shall I quote you an author of your ac- 
quaintance ? 

" — Whether doing, suffering, or forbear- 
ing. 
You may do miracles by — persevering." 

I have nothing new to tell you. The few 
friends we have are going on iu the old way. I 
sold my crop on this day se'night, and sold it 
very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, 
above vaue. But such a scene of drunkenness 
was hardly ever seen in this country. After 
the roup was over, about thirty people engaged 
iu a battle, every man for his own hand, and 
fought it out for three hours. Nor was the 
scene much better in the house. No fighting, 
indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and 
decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by 
attending them, that they could not stand. 
You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene ; 
as I was no farther over than you used to see 
me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshiw 
these many weeks. 

Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear Friend ! 



No. CLVL 

FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN 

Dryhurgh Jhhey, \Bth September, 1791. 
sir, 

Your address to the shade of Thomson ha 
been well received by the public ; and though I 
should disapprove of your allowing Pegasus to 
ride with you off the field of your honourable 
and useful profession, yet I cannot resist an im- 
pulse which I feel at this moment to suggest tc 
your muse, Harvest Home, as an excellent sub- 
ject for her grateful song, in which the peculiar 
aspect and manners of our country might fur- 
nish an excellent portrait and landscape of Scot- 
land, for the employment of happy nioments ol 
leisure and recess, fronti your more important 
occupations. 

Your Halloween, and Saturday Night, will 
remain to distant posterity as interesting pic- 
tures of rural irftocence and happiness in you» 
native country, and were happily written in thft 
dialect of the people ; but Harvest Howe being 
suited to desciTptive poetrv, except where collo* 
quial, may escape disguise of a dialect which ad- 
mits of no elegance dignity of expression. 
Without the assistance of any god or goddess, 
and without the invocation of any foreign muse; 
you may convey in epistolary form the descriO' 



BURNS' WORKS. 



doD cf » scene bo glaildeniug and pirtures^^ue, 
«rith all the -oncomitaat lo«:al position, land- 
scape and costume ; contrasting the peac€, im- 
provement, and happiness of the borders of the 
once hostile nations of Britain, with their former 
oppression and misery, -and showing, in lively 
jmd beautiful colours, the beauties and joys of a 
rural life. x\nd as the unvitiated heart is na- 
turally disposed to overflow in gratitude in the 
moment of prosperity, such a subject would fur- 
nish you with an amiable opportunity of perpe- 
tuating the names of G. -ncairn, Miller, and 
^our other eminent benefactors ; which from 
4rhat I know of your spirit, and have seen of 
rour poems and letters, will not deviate from 
he chastity of praise, that is bo uniformly unit- 
«1 to true taste and genius. 

I am, Sir, 8(c. 



No. CLVII. 
TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM 

Ur LADY, 

I WOULD, as usual, have availed myself of the 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, of sen«l- 
iixg you any thing I compose in my poetical 
way ; but as I had resolved, so soon as the 
bock ot my irreparable loss would allow me, to 
Day a tribute to my late benefactor, I determined 
bO make that the first piece I should do myself 
the honour of sending you. Had the wing of 
my fancy be<»n equal to the ardour of my heart, 
the enclosed had been much more worthy your 
perusal ; as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your 
ladyship's feet. As all the world knows my 
obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would 
wish to show as openly that my heart glows, 
and shall ever glow, with the most grateful 
sense and remembrance of his lordship's good- 
toess. The sables I did myself the honour to 
wear to his lordship's memory, were not the 
" mockery of woe.'' Nor shall my gratitude 
perish with me : — If, among my children, I 
shall have a son that has a heart, he shall hand 
it down to his child as a family honour, and a 
family debt, that my dearest existence 1 owe to 
the noble house oi Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think 
the poem may venture to see the light, I would, 
in some way or other, give it to the world. * 



No. CLVIC 
TO MR. AINSLIE. 

MY DEAR AINSLIE, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Cai 
you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, re- 
morse, head-ache, nausea, and al. the rest of th« 
d — d hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, 
who has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness— • 
can you s])eak peace to a troubled soul ? 

Misernhfe perdu that I am, I have tried every 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : hce 
must I sit a monument of the vengeance laid up 
in store for the wicked, slowly counting every 
chick of the clock as it slowly — slowlv numbers 
over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n 
them, are ranked up before me, every one at his 
neighbour's backside, and every one with a bur- 
then of anguish on his back, to pour on my de- 
voted head — and there is none to pity me. My 
wife scolds me ! my business torments me, and 
my sins come staring me in the face, every one 
telling a more bitter tale than his fellow.—- 
Wheu I tell you even .... has lost its 
power to please, you will guess something oi 
my hell within, and all around me — I began 
Elibanks and Elibraes, but the stanza fell un- 
enjoyed, and unfinished from my listless tongue ; 
at last I luckily thought of reading over an old 
letter of yours, that lay by me in my book-case, 
and I felt something for the first time since I 
opened my eyes, of pleasurable existence. 
Well — I begin to breathe a little, since I began 
to write you. How are you, aud what are you 
doing? How goes law? Apropos, for connec- 
tion's sake do not address to me supervisor, foi 
that is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on 
the list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will 
be called out by and bye to act one ; but at 
present, 1 am a simple guuger, tho' t'other day 1 
got an appointment to an excise division of L.25 
per ann. better than the rest. My present in 
come, down money, is L.70 per ann. 



1 have one or two good fellows here vhooi 
you would be q;lad to know. 



ITte poem eRclosed, 



ii The lament for Jama, 



No. CLIX. 



FROM SaR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

SIR, Near Mai/bole, \6th Oct. 1791 

Accept of my thanks for your favour with 
the Lament on the death of my much esteemed 
friend, and your worthy patron, the perusal of 
which plea.sed and affected me in«ch. The lines 
addressed to me are very dattering. 

I have always thought it most natural to s'lp 
[j^oee, ^and a strong argument in favour of a fu 



961 



hire existence) tnat wlr^n we see an honourable 
and virtuous man labouring under bodily infir- 
mities, and oppressed by the frowns of fortune 
in this world, that there was a happier state be- 
yond the gr.Hve ; where that worth and honour 
which were neglected here, would meet with 
their iust reward, and where temporal misfor- 
tunes would receivB an eternal recompense. Let 
us cherish this hope for our departed friend ; 
and moderate our grief for that loss we have 
sustained ; knowing that he cannot return to 
us, but we may go to him. 

Remember me to your wife, and with every 
good wish for the prosperity of you and your 
family, believe me at all times, 

Your most sincere friend, 

JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CLX. 
FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 

Edinburgh, ^7th Nov. 1791. 

You have much reason to blame me for ne- 
glecting till now to acknowledge the receipt of 
a most agreeal)le packet, containing The Whis- 
tle, a ballad ; and The Lament ; which reached 
me about six weeks ago in London, from whence 
I am just returned. Your letter was forwarded 
to me there from Edinburgh, where, as I ob- 
served by the date, it had lain for some days. 
This was an additional reason for me to have 
answered it immediately on receiving it ; but 
the truth was, the bustle of business, engage- 
ments and confusion of one kind or another, in 
which I found myself immersed all the time I 
was in London, absolutely put it out of my 
power. But to have done with apologies, let 
me now endeavdur to prove myself in some de- 
gree deserving of the very flattering compliment 
you pay me, i)y giving you at least a frank and 
candid, if it should not be a judicious criticism 
on the poems you sent me. 

The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opinion, 
truly excellent. The old tiadition which you 
have taken up is the best adapted for a Baccha- 
nalian composition of any I have ever met with, 
and yoj have done it full justice. In the first 
place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from 
the subject, and ar« uncommonly happy. For 
example, — 

** The bands grew the tighter the more they 
were wet." 

<* Cyutbia 'liated ahe'd find them next morn." 

* Though Fate taid a hero should perish in light. 
So up rose bright Phoebus and down fell the 
kni<;ht." 

iM the next place, you are singularly happy in 



the discrimination of your heroes, and in giving 
each the sc-vtiments and language suitable to hij 
character. And, lastly, you have much merit 
in the delicacy of the panegyric which you hav« 
contrived to throw on each of the dramatis per-' 
soncB, perfectly appropriate to his character. 
The compliment to Sir Robert, the blunt sol- 
dier, is peculiarly fine. In short, this composi- 
tion, in my opinion, does you great honour, and 
I see not a line or a word in it which I coxkM 
wish to be altered. 

As to The Lament, I suspect, from some ex- 
pressions in your letter to me, that yuu are more 
doubtful with respect to the merits of this piece 
than of the other, and I own I think you have 
reason ; for although it contains some beautiful 
stanzas, as the first, " The wind blew hollow,** 
&c. the fifth, *' Ye scatter 'd birds ;" the thir- 
teenth, " Awake thy last sad voice," &c. Yet 
it appears to me faulty as a whole, and inferior 
to several of those you have already published 
in the same strain. My principal objection lies 
against the plan of the piece. I think it was 
unnecessary and improper to put the lamenta- 
tion in the mouth of a fictitious character, an 
aged bard. — It had been much better to have 
lamented your patron in your own person, to 
have expressed your genuine feelings for his loss, 
and to have spoken the language of nature rather 
than that of fiction on the subject. Compare 
this with your poem of the same title in your 
printed volume, which begins, O thou pale 
Orb ! and observe what it is that forms the 
charm of that composition. It is, that it speaks 
the language of truth and of nature. The change 
is, in my opinion, injudicious too in this respect, 
that an aged bard has much less need of a pa- 
tron and protector than a young one. I have 
thus given you, with much freedom, my opinion 
of both the pieces. I should have made a very 
ill return to the compliment you paid me, if I 
had given you any other than my genuine sen- 
timents. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
you when you find leisure, and I beg you will 
believe me ever, dear Sir, yours, &c 



No. CLXI. 

TO MISS DA VIES. 

It is impossible, Madam, that tne generous 
warmth and angeli?^ purity of your youthfu 
mind, can have any dea of that moral disease 
under which I nanappily must rank as the chici 
of sinners ; I mean a torpitude of tl>e mora' 
powers that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
science. — In vain remorse rears her horrent 
crest, and rouses all her snakes ; bentath the 
diadly fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the 
bat, slumb»i ing out the rigours of winter m tht 



S62 



BURNS' WORKS. 



chink of a mined wa\\. Nothing less, Madam, 
could have inadt me so long neglect your oblig- 
ing commands. Indeed I had one apology — the 
bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, 

•o strongly am I intei-ested in Miss D 's fate 

and welfare in the serious business of life, amid 
its chances and changes ; that to make her the 
subject of a silly ballad, is downright mockery of 
these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an impertinent 
jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- 
tween our wishes and our powers ? Why is the 
most generous wish to make others blest, impo- 
tent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that 
crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks of life 
I have met with a few people to whom how 
gladly would I have said — " Go, be happy ! I 
know that your hearts have been wounded by 
the scorn of the proud, whom accident has plac- 
ed above you — or worse still, in whose hand are, 
perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your 
life. But there ! ascend that rock, Indepen 
dence, and look justly down on their littleness 
of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your 
indignation, and the foolish sink before your con 
tempt ; and largely impart that happiness to 
Others, which, I am certain, will give yourselves 
so much pleasure to bestow !" 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this de- 
lightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why, 
amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find my- 
self poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one 
tear from the eye of pity, or of adding one com- 
fort to the friend I love ! — Out upon the world ! 
say I, that its affairs are udmiiiistered so ill ? 
They talk of retbru» ;— good Htaven ! what a 
reform would I make among the sons, and even 
the daughters of men ! — Down, immediately, 
should go fools from the high places where mis- 
begotten chance has peiked them up, and through 
life should they skulk, ever haunted by their na- 
tive insignificance, as the body marches accom- 
panied by its shadow. — As for a much more for- 
midable class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to 
do with them : Had I a world, there should not 
be a knave in it. 



But the hand that could give, I wou/d liberally 
Sll ; and I would pour delight on the heart that 
i'ould kindly forgive, and generously love. 

Still the inequalities of his life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable — but there is a de- 
licacy, a tendernesa, accompanying erery view 
in which we can place Idvely Woman, that are 
grated and shocked at the rude, capricious dis- 
tinctions of fortune. Woman is the blood-royal 
'»f life : let there be slight degrees of precedency 
ftTOong them — but let them be all sacred. 
Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, 
I am not accountable ; it is an original compo- 
teut feature of my mind. 



No. CLXn. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Elllsland, 17th December, i791 
Many thanks to you, Madam, for your goo4 
news respecting the little floweret and the mo- 
ther plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will be answered up to the 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and 
then Mrs, Henri will find her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in every thing 
but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which, 
to a lady the descendant of Wallace, and many 
heroes of his truly illustrious line, and herseli 
the mother of several soldiers, needs neither pre ■ 
face nor apology. 

(Deaik Songi Setp 230) 



The circumstance that gave rise to the fore- 
going verses was, looking over, with a musicai 
friend, M'Donald's collection of Highland airs 
I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune 
entitled Oran an Aoig, or, Tfie Sung of Death 
to the measure of which I have adapted my 
stanzas. I have of late composed two or three 
other little pieces, which ere yon full orbed 
moon, whose broad impudent face now stares at 
old mother earth all night, shall have shrunk 
into a modest crescent, just peeping forth at 
dewy dawn, 1 shall find an hour to transcribe 
for you. A. Dieuje vous commende ! 



LETTERS, 1792. 

No. CLXIIJ. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, Esa. F.A.S, 

SIR, 1792. 

I BELIEVE among all our Scots literati you 
have not met with Professor Dugald Stewart, 
who fills the moral philosophy chair in the Uni- 
versity of Edinbi rgh. To say that he is a man 
of the first partis, and what is more, a man o. 
the first worth, to a gentleman of your general 
acquaintance, and who so much enjoys the lux- 
ury of unencumbered freedom and undisturbed 
privacy, is not perhaps recommendation enough : 
— but when I inform you that Mr. Stewart'a 
principal characteris'ic is your favourite fea 
ture ; Ma^ sterling independence of mind, which, 
though every man's right, so i^w men have the 
courage to claiu), and fewer still the magnani- 
mity to support ; — When 1 tell you, that unse- 
duced by splendour, and undisgusted by wretch- 
edness, he appreciates the merits of the vanout 
actors in the great drama of life, mere'y as the* 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



36S 



perform tlieir parts — in short, he is a man after 
yoar own heart, and I comply with his earnest 
fequest in letting you know that he wishes 
above all things to meet with you. His house, 
Catrine, is within less than a mile of Sorn Cas- 
tle, which you proposed visiting ; or if you 
tould transmit him the enclosed, he would with 
the greatest pleasure, meet you any where in the 
neighbourhood. I write to Ayrshire to inform 
Mr. Stewart that I have acquitted myself of my 
promise. Should your time and spirits permit 
your meeting with Mr. Stewart, 'tis well ; if 
not, I hope you will forgive this liberty, and I 
have at least an opportunity of assuring you 
with lehat truth and respect, 
I am, Sir, 

Your great admirer, 

And very humble servant. 



No. CLXIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

Among the many witch stories I have heard 
relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remember 
only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 
of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; in short, on 
such a night as the devil would choose to take 
the air in ; a fanner or farmer's servant was 
plodding and plashing homeward with his plough 
irons on his shoulder, having been getting some 
repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His 
way lay by the kirk of Alloway, and being ra- 
ther on the anxious look out in approaching a 
place so well known to be a favourite haunt of 
the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, 
he was struck aghast by discovering through 
t;ie horrorB of the storm and stormy night, a 
likjbt, which, on his nearer approach, plainly 
jtiowed itself to proceed from the haunted edi- 
fice. Whether he had been fortifi»id from above 
on his devout supplication, as is customary with 
people when they suspert the immediate pre- 
sence of Satan ; or whether, according to ano- 
ther custom, he had got courageously drunk at 
t.Se smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; 
b.it so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay 
into the very kirk. As good luck would have 
it his temerity came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were all 
out on some midnight business or other, and he 
saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, de- 
pending from the rofif, over the 6re, simmering 
some heads of unchnstene-l childrrn, limbs of 
executed malefactors, &c. for the business of the 
night. — It was, in foi a penny, in for a pound, 
with the honest pbughman : eo without cere- 
mony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, 
md pouring out the dairiiH.b'.e ingredients, in- 
vertwi * on his head, and cirried it fairly home, 
whf-e it remained lonjr ir. ibe family, a liv \kg 
evidence of the truth of tLe storv. 



Another story which . can prove to be eqcjaU 
ly authentic, was as follows ;— • 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farm* 
er from Carrick, and consequently whose way 
lay by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard, in 
order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, 
which is about two or three hundred yards fur- 
ther on than the said gate, had been detained 
by his business, till by the time he reached Al- 
loway V was the wizard hour, between night 
and morning. 

Though he was terrified, with a blaze stream* 
ing from the kirk, yet as it is a well-known fact 
that to turn back on these occasions is ruuningr 
by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudent^ 
ly advanced on his road. When he had reached 
the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and 
entertained, through the ribs and arches of ao 
old gothic window, which still faces the high- 
way, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it 
round their old sooty blackguard master, who 
was keeping them all alive with the power of 
his bagpipe. The farmer stopping his horse to 
observe them a little, could plainly descry the 
faces of many old women of his acquaintance 
and neighbourhood. How the gentleman was 
dressed, tradition does not say ; but the ladies 
were all in their smocks : and one of them hap- 
pening unluckily to have a smock which waa 
considerably too short to answer all the purpose 
of that piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled, 
that he involuntarily buret out, with a loud 
laugh, " Weel luppen, Maggy wi' the short 
sark!" and recollecting himself, instantly spur- 
red his horse to the top of his speed. I need 
not mention the universjilly known fact, that no 
diabolical power can pursue you beyond the 
middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for 
the poor farmer that tlie river Doon was so near, 
for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which 
was a good one, against he reached the middle 
of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the 
middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags, 
were so close at his heels, that one of them actual- 
ly sprung to seize him ; but it was too late, no- 
thing was on her side of the stream but the 
horse's tail, which immediately gave way at her 
infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of light- 
ning ; but the farmer was beyond her reach. 
However, the unsightly, tail-less condition ol 
the vigorous steed was to the last hour of the 
noble creature's life, an awful warning to the 
Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in Ayi 
markets 

The last relation 1 shall give, though equally 
true, is not so v/ell identified as the two form*"", 
with regard to the scene . but as the best autho- 
rities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about tlie time chat 
nature puts on her sables to mourn the e.\|)i»y 
of the chearful day, a shepherd hi y ijeionging 
to a farmer in the immediate nei^nhoui hood ol 
Alloway kirk, had just iohied ht«. charge, and 
was returning home. As he pas'.ed the kirk 
in the adjoining field, he fell iu wuh a creu c 



S64 



BURNS» WORKS. 



men and wimen, who were busy pulling stems 
of the plant ragwort. He observed that as 
each person pulled a ragwort, he or she got 
astride of it, and called out, " up horsie !'* on 
which the ragwort flew off, like Pegasus, 
through the air with its rider. The foolish boy 
likewise pulled his ragwort, and cried with the 
rest, " up horsie !" and, strange to tell, away 
he flew with the company. The first stage at 
which the cavalcade stopt, was a merchant's 
wine cellar in Bourdeaux, where, without say- 
•ng by your leave, they quaffed away at the best 
the cellar could afford, until the morning, foe to 
the imps and works of darkness, threatened to 
throw light on the matter, and frightened them 
from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a 
stranger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly 
got hiniseir drunk ; and when the rest took 
horse, he fell asleep, and was found so next day 
by some of the people belonging to the merchant. 
Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him 
what he was, he said he was such-a-one's herd 
in Alloway, and by some means or other getting 
home again, he lived long to tell the world the 
wondrous tale. 

I am, &c. &c.* 



No. CLXV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5th January, 1792. 

You see my hurried life. Madam : I can only 
command starts of time ; however, I am glad 
of one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, 
the politico! blast that threatened my welfare 
is overblown. I have corresponded with Com- 
missioner Graliam, for the Board had made 
me the subject of their animadversions ; and 
BOW I have the pleasure of informing you, that 
all is set to rights in that quarter. Now, as to 
these infoimers, may the devil be let loose to 
■ but hold ! I was praying most fervently 

in my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a 
swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly of- 
ficious think what mischief they do by their , 
malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, 
or thoughtless blabbings. What a difference 



« This letter wa' topied from the 7eiuura LUerarla, 
i786. It was eonununicated to the editor of that work 
by Mr. Gilchrist of Stamford, with the following re- 
mark. 

'• in a collection of miscellaneous papers of the An- 
tiquary Grose which 1 purchased a few years since, 
I touiul the following letter written to hini by Burns, 
when the former was collecting the Jintiquities of Scot- 
land : When I premise it was on the second tradition 
that he afterwards formed the inimitable tale of " Tara 
O'Shanter," I cannot doubt of its being read with great 
Uiterest. It were " burning day-lighr* to point out to 
B reader, (and who is not a reader of Burns ?/ the 
thoughts he ifterwaros transplanted into the rhythmi- 
m! narra .ve." 

O. G. 



there is in intrinaic worth, candour, benevft 
lence, generosity, kindness — in all the charities 
and all the virtues, between one class of human 
beings and another. For instance, the amiable 
circle I so lately mixed with in the hosuitable 

hall of D , their generous hearts — their un- 

contaminated dignified minds — their informed 
and polished understandings — what a contrast, 
when compared — if such comparing were not 
downright sacrilege — with the soul of the mis- 
creant who can deliberately plot the destruc 
tion of an honest man that never offended him, 
and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfbrtu 
nate being, his faithful wife, and prattling inno 
cents, turned over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. 1 
had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmeleerie cup, and told them that 
it had been a family- piece among the descend- 
ants of Sir William Wallace. This roused such 
an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering 
the punch round in it ; and by and bye, never 
did your great ancestor lay a Southron more 
completely to rest than for a time did your 
cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the sea- 
son of wishing. May God bless you, my dear 
friend, and bless me the humblest and sincerest 
of your frien.ds, by granting you yet many re- 
turns of the season ! May all good things at> 
tend you and yours wherever they are scattered 
over the earth ! 



No. CLXVL 

TO am. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 
PRINTER. 

Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 
I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young 
lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks oi 
fashion too. What a task ! to you — who care 
no more for the herd of animals called young 
ladies, than you do for the herd of animals 
called young gentlemen. To you — who despise 
and detest the groupings and combinations of 
fashion, as an idiot painter that seems indus- 
trious to place staring fools and unprincipled 
knaves in the foreground of his picture, while 
men of sense and honesty are too often thrown 
in the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, who 
will take this letter to town with her and send 
it to you, is a character that, even iu your own 
vv«y, as a naturalist and a philoHopher, would 
be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The 
lady too is a votary of the muses ; and as I 
think myself somewhat of a judge in my owd 
trade, I assure you that her verses, always cor- 
rect, and often elegant, . are much beyond the 
common run of the lady. poetesses of the day 
She is a great admirer of your book, and .ear- 
ing me say that I was acquainted with you, sh* 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



365 



Begged to be Tcnown to you, as she is just going 
to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. 
I told her that her best way was to desire her 
near relation, and your intimate friend, Craig- 
iarroch, to have you at his house while she was 
there ; and lest you might think of a lively West 
Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too 
often deserve to be thought of, I should <|»ke 
care to remove that prejudice. To be impar- 
tial, however, in appreciating the lady's merits, 
she has one unlucky failing, a failing which 
you will easily discover, as she seems rather 
pleased with indulging in it ; and a failing that 
you will as easily pardon, as it is a sin which 
Tery much besets yourself ; — where she dislikes 
cr despises, she is apt to make no more a se- 
cret of it, than where she esteems and respects. 
I will not present you with the uumeaning 
eompliments of the season, but I will send you 
my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, 
that FORTUNE may never throw your subsist- 
ENCK to the me-'-y of a knave, or set your 
CHARACTER On the judgment of a fool, but 
that, upright and erect, you may walk to an 
honest grave, where men of letters shall say, 
here lies a man who did honour to science ; and 
men of worth shall say, here lies a man who did 
honour to human nature ' 



No. CLXVII. 
• TO MR. W. NICOLL. 

20th February, 1792. 

O THOU, wisest among the wise, meridiai 
blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and 
chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is 
thy puddle- headed, rattle-headed, wrong-head- 
ed, round-headed slave indebted to thy super- 
eminent goodness, that from the luminous path 
of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest 
benignly down (m an erring wretch, of whom 
the zig-zag wanderings de^ all the powers of 
calculation.; from the simple copulation of units, 
up to the hidden mysteries oi fluxions ! May 
one feeble ray of that light of wisdom whi<-h 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow 
of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
tion, may it l)e my portion, so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face anrl favour of that fa- 
ther of proverbs acl master of maxims, that 
antipode of fc'ly, and magnet among the sages, 
tWe wise and witty Willie NicoU ! Amen ! Amen ! 
Yea, so be it ! 

For me ! I am a beaat, a reptile, and know 
nothing ' Fiom the cave of my ignorance, 
imid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fumes of my political heresies, I look up to 
thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred 
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloud- 
less glory of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing 
'' bitterness of soul I say, when ihall my uzme 



be the q notation of tne wise, and my counte- 
nance be the delight of the godly, like the illus 
trious lord of Laggan's many hills ? * As for 
him, his works are perfect ; never did the pea 
of calumny blur the fair page of his reputation, 
nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 



Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine 
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers. 
— As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy 
lips are holy. Never did !;he unhallowed breath 
of the powers of darkness, and the pleasure's o* 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky- 
descended and heaven-bound desires ; never did 
the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded 
serene of thy cerulean imagination. O that 
like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine 
the tenor of my conversation ! then should no 
friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in 
my weakness ! Then should I lie down and 
rise up, and none to make me afraid. — May thy 
pity and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou 
lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thf 
devoted 8lave.f 



No. CLXVIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

3d March, 1792. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious 
sheet, I have not had time to write you farther. 
When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, 
means, that the three demons, indolence, busi- 
ness, and ennui, have so completely shared my 
hours among them, as not to leave me a five 
minutes fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buojing up- 
wards with the renovating year Now I shall 
in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. 1 
dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, 
and I must own with too much appearance of 
truth. Apropos, do you know the much admir- 
ed old Highland air called The Sutor's Dock- 
ter ? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and 1 
have written what I reckon one of my best songs 
to it. I will send it to you as it was sung with 
great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with 
his corps. 



There is one commission that I must trouole 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pre- 



• Mr NicoU. 

t TI-- strain of irony was excited ky a letter of Mr 
Nicoll's eontaining good advice. 



%6 



BURNS* WORKS. 



eetit from a departed friend, which vexes me 
much. I lave gotten one of your Highland 
peboles, which I fancy would mak« a very de- 
cent one ; and I want to cut my armorial bear- 
ing on it ; wL' you be so obliging as inquire 
what will be the expense of such a business ? I 
do not know that my name is matriculated, as 
the heralds call it, at all ; but I have invented 
arms for myself, so you know I shall be chief of 
the name ; and by courtesy of Scotland, will 
likewise be entitled to supporters. These, how- 
ever, I do not intend having on my seal. I am 
a bit of a herald ; and shall give you, secundum 
artem, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly 
bi>s.h, seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe 
and crook, saltierwise, also proper, in chief. On 
a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching 
on a sprig of bay-tree, proper : for crest, two 
mottoes, round the top of the crest, Wood-notes 
wild. At the bottom of the shield, in the usual 
place. Better a wee bush than nae bield. By 
the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not meau the 
nonsense of painters of Arcadia ; but a Stock 
and Horn, and a Club, such as you see at the 
head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition 
of the Gentle Shepherd. By the bye, do you 
know Allan? He must be a man of very great 
genius. — Why is he not more known ? — Has he 
no patrons ? or do " Poverty's cold wind and 
crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him ? 
I once, and but once, got a glance of that noble 
edition of the noblest pastoral in the world, and 
ie=ir as it was, I mean dear as to my pocket, 1 
would -have bought it ; but I was told that it 
was printed and engraved for subscribers only. 
He is the only artist who has hit genuine pas- 
toral costume. What, my dear Cunningham, 
is there in riches, that they narrow and harden 
the heart so? I think that were I as rich as the 
sun, I should be as generous as the day ; but 
as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler 
one than any other man's, I must conclude that 
wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the pos- 
sessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, 
would have revolted. What has led me to this, 
is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, 
and such riches as a nabob or governor-contrac- 
tor possesses, and why they do not form a mu- 
tual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish un- 
orotected • merit, and the gratitude and celebrity 
:£ that merit vriV richl' repay it. 



try to give a little musical lustruction in a hi jh, 
ly respectable fancily, where Mr. C may havi 
his own terms, and may be as happy as ind(H 
lence, the Devil, and the gout will permit him. 
Mr. B. knows well how Mr. C. is engaged with 
another family ; but cannot Mr. C. find two or 
three weeks to spare to each of them ? Mr. B. 
is deeply impressed with, and awfully conscious 
of, the high importance of Mr. C's time, whe- 
ther in the winged moments of symphonious 
exhibition, at the keys of harmony, while list- 
ening Seraphs cease their own less delightful 
strains ; — or in the drowsy hours of slumberous 
repose, in the arms of his dearly-beloved elbow- 
chair, where the frowsy, but potent power of 
indolence, circumfuses her vapours round, and 
sheds her dews on, the head of her darling son. 
— But half a line conveying half ^ meaning 
from Mr. C. would make Mr. B. the very hap- 
piest of mortals. 



No. CIXX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, 22d Jugust, 179». 
Do not blame me for it, Madam — my owa 
conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it 
is, in watchini^ and reproving my vagaries, fol- 
lies, indolence, &c. has continued to blame and 
punish me sufficiently. 



No CLXIX. 

TO MR. T. CLARKE, Edinburgh. 

July 16, 1792. 
Mr. Burns begs leave to present his most 
respectful compliments to Mr. Clarke. — Mr. B. 
•ome time ago did himself the honour of writ- 
tag M C. resi^ecting soming out to the coun- 



Do you think it possible, my dear and hoa 
cured friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude 
for many favours ; to esteem for much worth, 
and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, 
old acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of pro- 
gressive increasing friendship — as, for a single 
day, not to think of you — to ask the Fates what 
they are doing and about to do with my much 
loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, 
and to beg of them to be as kind to you and 
yours as they possibly can. 

Apropos (though how it is apropos, I have 
not leisure to explain), do you know that 1 am 
almost in love with an acquaintance of yours ? 
— Almost ! said I — I am in love, souse ! over 
head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable 
abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word, 
Love, owing to the intermingled oms of the good 
and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this 
world, being rather an equivocal term for ex- 
pressing one's sentiments and sensations, I must 
do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment 
Know then, that the heart-struck awe ; he dis. 
tant humble approach ; the delight w*» should 
have in gazing upon and listening to a Messen- 
ger of Heaven, appearing in all the unspoired 
purity of his celestial home, among the coarse, 
polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver tc 
them tidings that make their hearts swim in joT 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



36' 



and their ima|;inations soar in transport — such, 
to delighting, and so pure, were the emotions of 
my soul on meeting the other day with Miss 

L — B — , your neighbour at M Mr. B. 

witl his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. 
of G. passing through Dumfries a few days jLgo, 
on their way to England, did me the honour of 
calling on me ; on which I took my horse 
(though God knows I could ill spare the time), 
ami accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, 
and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas 
about nine, I think, when I left them ; and rid- 
ing home, I composed the following ballad, of 
which you will probably think you have a dear 
bargain, as it will coast you another groat of 
postage. You must know that there is an old 
ballad beginning with 

" My bonnie Lizzie Baillie 

I'll row thee in my plaidie,** lie. 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the 
first copy, " unanointed unannealed," as Ham- 
let says. — See p. 194. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr- 
shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
notwithstanding it has many good things in it, 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three 
people who would be the happier the oftener they 
met tcigetner, are, almost without exception al- 
ways 80 placed as never to meet but oncv or 
twice a-year, which, considering the few years 
of a man's life, is a very great " evil undor the 
Bun," which I do not recollect that Solonum h is 
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man. 
I hope and believe that there is a state of exists 
•nee beyond the grave, where the worthy of this 
life will renew their former intimacies, with this 
endearing addition, that " we meet to part no 
more.'* 



•* Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be !" 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men, but not one of them 
^8 ever thought fit to answer the question. 
'• O that some courteous ghost would blab it 
out !" — but it cannot be ; you and I, my friend, 
muHt make the experiment by ©urselves and for 
©urselves. However, I am so convinced that an 
unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion ia not 
only necessary, by making us better men, but al- 
so by making us happier men, that I shall take 
every care that your little god-son, and every 
little creature that shall call me father, shall be 
taught them 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild piacs of the world, in the intervals of 
my labour of discharging a vessel of ruu from 
Aiitigua. 



No. CLXVIl 
TO MR. CUNMNGHAM. 

Dumfries, \Oth September, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology. — An: id 
all my hurry of business, grinding the face of 
the publican and the sinner on the merciless 
wheels of the excise ; making ballads, and then 
drinking, and singing them ; and, over and 
above all, the correcting the press- work of two 
different publications ; still, still I might have 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the first 
of my friends and fellow-creatures. I might 
have done, as I do at present, snatched an hour 
near " witching time of night" — and scrawled 
a page or two. I might have congratulated my 
friend on his marriage ; or I might have thank- 
ed the Caledonian archers for the honour they 
have done me (though to do myself justice, 1 
intended to have done both in rhyme, else I had 
done both long ere now. ) Well, then, here ia 
to your good health ! for you must know, I 
have set a nipperkin of toddy by me, just by 
way of spell, to keep away the meikle horned 
Deil, or any of his subaltern imps who may be 
on their nightly rounds. 

But what shall I write to you ? — " The voice 
said cry," and I said, " what shall I cry?'* — O, 
thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wherever 
thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by 
the eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary 
glen through which the herd callan maun bicker 
in his gloami>n route frae the faulde ! Be thou a 
brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by 
the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn where 
the repercussions of thy iron flail affright thy- 
self, as thou performest the work of twenty ol 
the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon 
thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose. — Be 
thou a kelpie, hauntins^ the furd or ferry, in the 
starless night, mixing thy laughing yell with the 
howling of the storm, and the roaring of the 
flood, as thou viewest the perils and miseries of 
man on the foundering horse, or in the tumb- 
ling boat ! — Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying 
thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decay- 
ed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic rites in 
the shadow of thy time-worn church, while the 
moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, 
ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee ; or 
taking thy stand by the bedside of tne villain, 
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, dr^^idfril as the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
Deity !— Come, thou spirit, but not 'o thesi 
horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle 
easy inspirations, which thou breathest rouftr 
the wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of a 
tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run at 
the light-horse gallop of clishmaclaver for evet 
and ever— come and assist a poor devil who i« 
quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea 
among half a hundred words ; to till up four 
quarto pages, whde he has not got one single 



968 



BURNS* WORKS. 



ientence of recollection, information, or remark 
worth putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel tl e presence of supernatural as- 
sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three- footed stool, and like her too, la- 
bours with Nonsense Nonsense, auspicious 

name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of 
physic ; ami partyrularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of SCHOOL DIVINITY, who, leaving Com- 
mon Sense cunfornded at his strength of pinion. 
Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy flight, 
and Truth creeping l)ack into the bottom of her 
well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her 
tcorned alliance to the wizard power of Theolo- 
gic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. " On 
earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, open- 
ing her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth 
patt of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an in- 
escapable and inexorable hell, expanding its le- 
viathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals ! ! !** 
— O doctrine ! comfortable and healing to the 
weary, wounded soul of a man ! Ye sons and 
daughters of affliction, ye pauvrcs miserables, to 
whom day brings no pleasure, and night yields 
no rest, be comforted ! " 'Tis but 07ie to nine- 
teen hundred thousand that yCiir situation will 
mend in this world ;'* so, alas ! the experience 
of the poor and the needy too often affirms ; and 
'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the 

dogmas of , that you will be damned 

eternally in the world to come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is 
the most nonsensical ; so enough, and more 
than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will you, 
or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why 
a sectaiian turn of mind has always a tendency 
to narrow and iliiberalize the heart ? They are 
orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I have known 
them merciful : but still your children of sanc- 
tity move among their fellow-creatures with a 
nostril snuffing putrescence, and a foot spurning 
filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that 

your titled 

or any other of your Scottish lordlings 
of seven centuries standing, display when they 
accidentally mix among the many-aproned sons 
of mecli inical life. I remember, in my plough- 
boy days, I could not conceive it possible that a 
noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could 
be a knave. — How ignorant are plough-boys !- — 
Nay, I have since discovered that a yodly wo- 
man may be a 1 — But hold — Here's t'ye 

again — this rum is generous Antigua, so a very 
unfit menstruum for scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like, I mean really like 
the married life ! Ah, my friend ! matrimony is 
quite a different thing from what jour love-sick 
vouths and sighing girls take it to be ! But 
marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, and 
r shall never quarrel with any of his institutions. 
[ am a husband of older standing than you, and 
shall give you my ideas of the conjugal state — 
'«» passatU* YOU know I am no Latinist. is not 



con/u^aZ derived from ywi^am, a /oke'') Weii. 
then, the scale of good-wifeship 1 divide into 
ten parts. — Good-nature, four ; Good Sense, 
two ; Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet 
face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage, 
(I would add a fine waist too, but that is sfi 
soon spoilt, you know), all these, one ; as for 
the other qualities belonging to, or attending on, 
a wife, such as Fortane, Connections, Educa- 
tion, (I mean education extraordinaiy), Fami\y 
Blood, &c. divide the two remaining degrees 
among them as you please ; only, remember 
that all these minor properties must be express- 
ed by fractions, for there is not any one of 
them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dig- 
nity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries- 
how 1 lately met with Miss Lesly Baillie, th^ 
most beautiful, elegant woman in the work 
— how I accompanied her and her father's fa- 
mily fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure 
devotion, to admire the loveliness of the works 
of God, in such an unequalled display of thenP 
— how, in galloping hone at :.%:;'- .nade r 
ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make 
a part — 

Thou, bonnie Lesly, art a queen, 
Thy subjects we before thee ; 

Thou, bonnie Lesly, art divine. 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Deil he could na scaith 

Whatever wad belang thee I 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, " I canna wrang thee. 

— behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imagination, and shall be reai 
by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved 
spouse, my other dear friend, at a more conve- 
nient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thj jefore-designed ho- 
som-companion, be given the precious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the be- 
nignest influence of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever !— 
Amen ! 



No. CLXVIIL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 2Uh September, 1792. 
I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, yourt 
of the twenty-third. All your other kind rfr. 
proaches, your news, &c. are out of my head 
when I read and think on Mrs. H 's situa- 
tion. Good God! a heart- woundei helpiesi? 
young woman — in a strange, foreign at?d, and 



CGRRESPOINDENCE. 



^t laid convulsed w^Ith every horroi% that can 
faarruw the human feelings — sick — looking, 
looj'og for a comforter, but finding none — a 
mother's feelings, too — but it is too much : he 
who wounded (he only can) may He heal !• 



I wish the farmer great joy of his new ac- 
quisition to his family 

I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as a 
fanner. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, un- 
conscionable rent, a cursed life / As to a laird 
farming his own property; sowing his own 
corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite of brittle 
weather, in gladness; knowing that none can 
eay unto him, " what dost thou ?" — fattening 
his herds ; shearing his flocks ; rejoicing at 
Christmas ; and begetting sons and daughters, 
until he be the venerated, grey-haired leader of 
a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life ! but Devil 
take the life of reaping the fruits that another 
nnist eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as 
to seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. 

I cannot leave Mrs. B , until her nine 

months' race is run, which may perhaps be in 
three or four weeks. She, too, seems determin- 
ed to make me the patriarchal leader of a band. 
However, if Heaven will be so obliging as let 
me have them on the proportion of three boys 
to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. 
I hope, if I am spared with them, to show a set 
of boys that will do honour to my cares and 
name ; but I am not equal to the task of rear- 
•ng girls. Besides, I am too poor ; a girl should 
glways have a* fortune. Apropos, your little 
god-son is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
devil. He, though two years younger, has com- 
pletely mastered his brother. Robt-rt is indeed 
the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He 
has a most surprising memory, and is quite the 
pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle up- 
on a subject dear to our heart : you can excuse 
t. God bless you and yours ! 



No. CLXIX. 
TO THE SAME. 

•OPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE 
DEATH OF MRS. H , HER DAUGHTER. 

I HAD been from hqme, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other day. 
W^hat shall I say to comfort you, my much-va- 
ded, much-afflicted friend ! I can but grieve 
jrith you ; consolation I have none to offer, ez- 



* This much-Umented ladv was gone to the louth 
0f France with her inlant too, wheie ihe died toon af- 

W2 



cept that which religion holds out to the chil- 
dren of affliction— c/(t'Wren of affiiction f-m. 
how just the expression ! and like every other 
family, they have matters among them whick 
they hear, see, and feel in a seiious, all-impor- 
tant manner, of which the world has not, nor 
cares to have, any idea. The world looks in- 
differently on, makes the passing remark, and 
proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many 
years ! What is it but to drag existence until 
our joys gradually expire and leave us in a night 
of misery ; like the gloom which blots out the 
stars one by one, fi-om the face of night, and 
leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howl- 
ing waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
shall soon hear from me again. 



No. CLXX. 

TO THE SAME. 

Dumfries, 6th December., ITDi. 

I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next week ; 
and if at all possible, I shall certainly, ni} imuh- 
esteemed friend, have the pleasure of 'isiting at 
Dunlup-house. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we me meet 
in this world, that we have reason to couLiratu- 
late ourselves on occasions of happiuess ! I have 
not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of 
a newspaper, that I do not see some names that 
I have known, and which I, and other acquaint 
anoes, little thought to meet with there so soon. 
Every other instance of the mortality of our 
kind, makes us cast an anxious look into the 
dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with 
apprehensions for our own fate. But of how 
different an importance are the lives of different 
individuals? Nay, of what importance is one 
period of the same life, more than another ? A 
few years ago, I could have lain down in the 
dust, " careless of the voice of the morning ;" 
and now not a few, and these most helpless in- 
dividuals, would, on losing me and my exer. 
tions, lose both their " staff and shield.** By 
tke way, these helpless ones have lately got ab 
addition, Mrs. B. having given me a fine girl 
since I wrote you. There is a charming paa* 
sage in Thomson's Edward and JEleanora, 

'* The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer— 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall 
give you another from the same piece^ peculiar • 
ly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my dear M»< 
dam, to your present frame of mind : 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck Viw^ 
With hit fair-weather virtue, that exult* 



570 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Glad o'er the •ummer maid? t:ie tempest 

comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the 

helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies, 
Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

I do not remember to have heard you men- 
lion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, a.-d store them in my mind as ready 
armour, offen?\ve, or defensive, amid the struggle 
of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a 
"ery favourite one, from his Alfred, 

Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

And offices of life ; to life itself, 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you 
formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, 
1 am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical style of ex- 
pression, is much more bounded than that of 
the imagination ; so the notes of the former are 
extremely apt to run into one another ; but in 
return for the puucity of its compass, its few 
notes aie much moje sweet. I must still give 
you another quotation, which I am almost sure 
[ have given you before, but I cannot resist the 
temptation. The subject is religion — speaking 
of its im|)ortance to mankind, the author says, 

'' 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 
bright," &c. as in p. 49. 

! see vou are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this 
country here have many alarms of the reform- 
ins, or rather the republican spirit of your part 
ef the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in 
commorion ourselves. For me, I am a place- 
man, you know ; a very humble one iiideed, 
Heaven knows, but still so much so as to gag 
me. What my private sentiments are, you will 
find out without an interpreter. 



I have taken up the subject in another view ; 
and the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit- 
night, I wrote an address, which I will give 
vou on the other page, called The Rights of 
Woman. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

An Occasional Address spoken by Miss FoN- 
TENELI.E on her benefit niyht. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
1 he fate of empires and the fall of kings, 
While QtKuks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
4Bd even children Iwp the Rights of Man ; 



Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some a.tentio 

First, in the sexes* intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender Cower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fah before the blast of fate, 
I Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form. 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.-* 

Our second Right's — but needless here is can 
tion, 
To keep that right inviolate*8 the fashion. 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum.-^ 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude nen had naughty 

ways : 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up t 

riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fled: 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gain- 
ers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. * 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 
dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the near- 
est. 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, air^ 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares— 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

Rut truce with kings, and truce with consti 
tutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah ! ca ira ! thk Majestv of Womam ! 

I shall have the honour of receiving your cri- 
ticisms in person at Dunlop. 



No. CLXXL 

TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. Fiktrt. 

SIR, December, 1798. 

I HAVE been surprised, confounded, and di»> 
tracted, by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, telhn* 
me that he has received an order from you: 



* Ironical allusion to the saturnalia of the Calea* 
nian Hunt* 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



87 i 



B^ard tc. inquire into my political conduct, and 
blaming me as a person disaffected to Govern- 
ment. Sir, you are a husband-— and a father. — 
You know what you would feel, to see the much- 
loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, 
prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, 
degraded and disgraced from a situation in which 
they had been respectable and respected, and left 
tlmost without the necessary support of a miser- 
able existence. Alas, Sir ! must I think that 
inch, soon, will by my lot ' and from the d-mned, 
iark insinuations of hellish groundless envy too ! 
I iHjlieve, Sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of 
Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliberate 
falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if 
woi-se can be, *han those I have mentioned, hung 
over my beau ; and I say, that the allegation, 
whatever villain has made it, is a lie ! To the 
British Constitution, on revolution principles, 
I next after my God, I am most devoutly attach- 
ed ! You, Sir, have been much and generously 
my friend. — Heaven knows how warmly I have 
felt the obligation, and how gr-tefully I have 
thanked you. — Fortune, Sir, has made you pow- 
erful, and me impotent ; has given you patron- 
age, and me dependence. — I would not, for my 
single self, call on your humanity ; were such 
my insular, unconnected situation, I would de- 
spise the tear that now swells in my eye — I 
could brave misfortune, I could face ruin : for 
at the worst, " Death's thousand doors stand 
open ;" but, good God ! the tender concerns 
that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that 
I tee at this moment, and feel around me, how 
they unnerve Courage, and wither Resolution ! 
To your patronage, as a man of some genius, 
you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, 
as an honest man, I know is my due : To these, 
Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these may I ad- 
jure you to save me from that misery wkich 
threatens to overwhelm me, and which, with 
my latest breath I will say it, I have not deserved. 



No. CLXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

BEAR MAP«M, December 31, 1792. 

A HURRV of business, thrown in heaps by my 
absence, has until now prevented my returuir>g 
my grateful acknowledgments to the good fa- 
mily of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that 
hospitable kindness which rendered the four 
days I spent under that genial roof, four of the 
pleasantest I ever enjoyed. — Alas, my dearest 
friend ! how few and fleeting are those things 
we call pleasures ! On my road to Ayrshire, I 
•pent a nit;ht with a friend whom I much valued ; 
a man whose days promised to be many ; and 
tn Saturday last we laid him io the dust ! 

January 5J, 1793. 
I HAVE just received yours ot the 30th, and 



feel much for your situation. However, T hearti- 
ly rejoice in your prospect of recovery from thai 
vile jaundict. A<5 to myself, I am better, thougb 
not quite free of my complaint. — You must not 
think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way 
of life 1 want exercise. Of that I have enough j 
but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. 
Against this I have again and again bent my re- 
solution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns 
I have totally abandoned : it is the private par- 
ties in the family way, among the hard drinking 
gentleman of the country, that ao me the mis- 
chief — but even this I have more than half given 
over. 

Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me « 
present ; at least I should be shy of applying. 
I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for 
several years. I must wait the rotation of the 

list, and there are twenty names before mine 

I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a 
settled supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that hauls 
me from my family, as I could not remove thetn 
on such an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, 
malicious devil, has raised a little demur on my 
political principles, and I wish to let that mat- 
ter settle befoie 1 offer myself too much in tht 
eye of my superiors. I have set, henceforth, 
a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky politics; 
but to you, I must breathe my sentiments. In 
this, £*s in every thing else, I shall shew the un- 
disguised emotions of the soul. War I depre- 
cate : misery and ruin to thousands, are in the 
blast that announces the destructive demon. But 



The remainder of this letter has been torn 
iway by some ba« barous hand. 



LETTERS, 1793. 

No. CLXXIII. 

TO MISS B , OF YORK. 

MADAM, 2\st March, 179S. 

Among many things for which I envy tho« 
hale, loug-lived old fellows befoi-e the flood, is 
this in particular, that when they met with an^ 
body after their own heart, they had a charm- 
ing long prospect of many, many happy meet- 
ing? with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when you now and then, it. 
the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individua. 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there 
ai-e all the pi-obabilities against you, that you 
shall never meet with that valued character 
more. On the other hand, brief as the miser- 
able being is, it is none of the least of the mi- 
series belonging to it, that if there is any mis- 
creant whoii you hate, ^r creature whom yot 
despise, the .11 riji of the chances shall be ac 



872 



BURNS' WORKS 



•gainst youj tliat in the overtakings, turnings, 
and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky cor- 
ner, eternally comes the wreici upon you, and 
will not allow your indignation or contempt a 
moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer 
lu the powers of darkness, I take those to be 
the doings of that old author of mischief, the 
devil. It is well known that he has some 
kind of short-hand way of taking down our 
thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is per- 
fectly acquainted with my sentiments respect- 

ng Miss B ; how much I admired her 

abilities and valued her worth, and how very 
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. 
For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must 
entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of 
meeting with you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a 

packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
enclosed sonnet, though to tell you the real 
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may 
have the opportunity of declaring with how 
much respectful esteem I have the honour to 
tie,&c. 



No. CLXXIV. 

TO PATRICK MILLER, Esq. 
OF DALSWINTON. 

SIR, April, 1793. 

My poems having just come out in another edi- 
tion, will you do me the honour to accept of a 
copy ? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a 
gentleman to whose goodness I have been much 
indebted ; of my respect for you, as a patriot 
who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the 
champion of the liberties of my country ; and 
of my veneration for you, as a man, whose be- 
nevolence of heart does honour to human nature. 

There was a time, Sir, when I was your de- 
pendant : this language then would have been 
like the vile incense of flattery — 1 could not have 
used 't. — Now that connection * is at an end, 
do me the honour to accept of this honest tribute 
of respect from. Sir, 

Your much indebted humble Servant. 



No. CLXXV. 

TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, EsQ.f 
OF MAR. 

MR, Dumfries, VSth April, 1793. 

Degenerate as human nature is said to be; 
tnd in manv instances worthless and unprinci- 

♦ Alluding to the time when he held the farm of El- 
island, as tenant to Mr. M. 

I; This gentleman, most obligingly favoured the 
Cflitor with a perfect copy of the original letter, and 



pled it is ; still tnere are bright example? to the 
contrary : examples that even in the eyes of su- 
perior beings, must shed a lustre on the name o! 
man. 

Such an example have I now before m&, 
when you. Sir, came forward to patronise and 
befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely be- 
cause poverty had made him helpless, and his 
British hardihood of mind had provoked the ar- 
bitrary wantonness of power. My much es- 
teemed friend, Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has 
just read me a paragraph of a letter he had 
from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb w 
gratitude ; for words would but mock the emo- 
tions of my soul. 

You have been misinformed as to my finaj 
dismission from the Excise ; I am still in the 
service. — Indeed, but for the exertions of a gen- 
tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham 
of Fintray, a gentleman who has ever been my 
warm and generous friend, I had, without so 
much as a hearing, or the slightest previous io- 
timation, been ttJined adrift, with my helpless 
family, to all the horrors of want. — H^dd I had 
any other resource, probably I might have saved 
them the trouble of a dismission ; but the little 
money I gained by my publication, is almost 
every guinea embarked, to save from ruin aa 
only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, 
ia by no means one of the most fortunate oi 
men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I said, 
that whatever might be my sentiments of re- 
publics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, } ab- 
jured the idea : — That a constitution, which, 
in its original principles, experience had proved 
to be every way fitted for our happiness in so- 
ciety, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an un- 
tried visionary theory ;— That, in consideratioa 
of my being situated in a department, however 
humble, immediately in the hands of people in 
power, I had forborne taking any active part, 
either personally, or as an author, in the present 
business of reform. But that, where I must 
declare my sentiments, I would say there exist- 
ed a system of corruption between the executive 
power and the representative part of the legisla- 
ture, which boded no good to our glorious con- 
stitution ; an<> which every patriotic Briton 
must wish to see amenfled. — Some such senti- 
ments as these, I stated in a letter to my gene- 
rous patron Mr. Graham, which he laid before 
the Board at large ; where, it seems, my hst 
remark gave great oiFence ; and one of our su- 

allowec »im to lay it before the public.—, t is partly 
printed in Dr. Currie's Edition. 

It will be necessary to state, that in consequence ot 
the poet's freedom of remark on public measures, ma- 
liciously misrepresented to the Board of Excise, he 
was represented as actually dismissed from his office. 
— This report induced Mr. Erskine to propose a sub 
scription in his favour, which was refused by the poe* 
with that elevetion of sentiment that peculiarly clia- 
racterlsed his mind, and which is so happily displayed 
in this letter. See letter No. 171, in the present vo- 
lume, written by Burns, with even more than his ac- 
customed pathos and eloquence, in further explan» 
tion.— Cromek. 



CORRESPONDExNCK 



S73 



pemsors general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed 
to inquire on the spot, and to document me — 
** that my ousiness was to act, not to think , 
and that whatever might be men or measures, 
ii was for me to be silent and obedient.'* 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; 
6o bet'veen Mr. Graham and him, I have been 
partly forgiven ; only I understand that all 
hopes of my getting officially forward, are 
blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I would 
more immediately interest you. The partiality 
af my countrymen, has brought me forward 
ts a man of genius, and has given me a charac- 
ter to support. In the poet I have avowed 
manly and independent sentiments, which I 
trust will be fo'ind in the man. Reasons ot, no 
less weiijht than the support of a wife and fa- 
mily, have pointed out as the eligible, and si- 
tuated as I was, the only eligible line of life for 
me, my present occupation. Still my honest 
fame is my dearest concern ; and a thousand 
times have I trembled at the idea of those de- 
grading epithets that malice c<- misrepresenta- 
tion may affix to my name. I have often, in 
blasting anticipation, listened to some future, 
hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of sa- 
vage Ktupidity, exulting in his hireling para- 
graphs — " Burns, notwithstanding the fan- 
furojiade of independence to be found in his 
works, and after b ivinsj been held forth to pub- 
lic view, and to public estimation as a man of 
■ome genius, yet, quite destitute of resources 
within himself to support bis borrowed dignity, 
he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk 
out the rest of his insignificant existence in the 
meanest of pursuits, and amoug the vilest of 
mankind," 

In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to 
lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slan- 
derous falsehoods. — Burns was a poor man 
from birth, and an exciseman by necessity : but 
— I will say it ! the sterling of bis hcmest worth, 
nu poverty could debase, and his independent 
British mind, oppression might bend, but could 
not subdue. Have not I, to me, a more pre- 
cious stake in my country's welfare, than the 
richest dukedom in it ? — I have a large family 
I of children, and the prospect of many more. I 
have three sons, who, I see already, have brought 
into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the 

bodies of slaves Can I look tamely on, and 

see any machination to wrest from them the 
birthright of my boys, — the little independent 
BRITONS, in whose veins runs my own blood ? — 
No ! I will not ! should my heart's blood stream 
around my attempt to defend it ! 

Does any mm tell me, that my full efforts 
can be of no service ; and that it does not be- 
long to my humble station to meddle with the 
eoQcern of a natien ? 

I can tell him, <:hat it is on such individuals 
u I, that a nation has to rest, both for the 
oand of support, and the eye of intelligence 
The uniofoi-mM mob may swel. a natioc'a 



bulk ; and the titled, tinsel, courtly t iron^ 
may be its feathered ornament ; but the nuin. 
ber of those who are elevated enough in life tc 
reason and to reflect ; yet low enough to keep 
clear of the venal contagion of a court; — these 
are a nation's strength. 

T know not how to apologize for the imper- 
tinent length of this epistle ; but owe small re» 
quest I must ask of you farther — When you 
have honoured this letter with a perusal, please 
to c(mimit it to the flames. Burns, in whose 
behalf you have so generously interested your- 
self, I have here, in his native colours diawn 
as he is ; hut should any of the people in whose 
hands i> the very bread he eats, get the least 
knowledge of the picture, it would ruin the poof 
KAKi^ for ever ! 

IVTy p<!ems having just come out in another 

edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy, 

as a stnall mark of that high esteem and arden 

gratitude, with which I have the honour to be 

Sir, 

Your deeply indebted, 
And ever devoted humble servasl 



No. CLXXVl. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

April 26, 1793. 

I AM d — mnably out of humour, my dear 
Ainslie, and that is the reason, why I take up 
the pen to you . 'tis the nearest way, (^probatum 
est) to recover my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was nmch entertain- 
ed with it ; but I will not at this time, nor at 
any other time, answer it. — Answer a letter? I 
never could answer a letter in my life ! — I have 
written many a letter in return for letters I have 
received ; but then — they were original matter 
— spurt-away ! 7,ig, here ; zag, there ; as if the 
Devil that, my grannie (an old woman indeed!) 
often told me, rode in will-o'-wisp, or, in her 
more cla.ssic phrase, Spunkie, were looking 
over my elbow. — Happy thought that idea baa 
engendered in my head ! SpuNKiE — thou shalt 
henceforth be my symbol, signature, and tute- 
lary genius! Like thee, hap-step-and-lowp, here- 
awa-there-awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, hi 
therand-yoo, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up 
tails-a'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon ; has been, is, 
and shall be, my progress tVirough the mosses 
and moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness 
of a life of ou-s 

Come then my guardian spirit ! like thee, 
may I skip away, amusing myself by and at mf 
own light : and if any opaque-souled lubbef 
of mankind complain that my elfine, lambent, 
glinimerous wanderings have misled his stupid 
steps over precipices, or into bogs ; let the 
thick-headed Bluitderbuss recollect, tb/t he is 
not SPl'NKiE : — that 



S?4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Sr»JK*iE*s wanderings could not copied be ; 
Amid these perils none durst walk but he. — 



1 have no doubt but scholarcraft may be caught 
as a Scotsman catches the itch, — by friction. 
How else can you account for it, that born 
blockheads, by mere dint of handlinp books, 
grow so wise that even the> themselves are 
equally convinced of and surprised at their own 
parts ? I once carried this philosophy to that 
degree that in a knot of country folks who had 
a library amongst them, and who, to the honour 
of their good sense, made me factotum in the 
business ; one of our members, a littiC, wise- 
looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
tailor, 1 advised him, instead of turning over 
the leaves, to hind the hook on his hack. — Johnie 
took the hint ; and as our meetings were every 
fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse having a good 
Scots mile to walk in coming, and, of course, 
another in returning, Bodkin was sure to lay 
his hands on some heavy quarto, or ponderous 
folio, with, and under which, wrapt up in his 
gi-ey plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all 
the way home. He carried this so far, that an 
old musty Hebrew concordance which we had 
in a present from a neighbouring priest, by mere 
dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering 
plaister, between his shoulders, Stitch, in a 
dozen pilgrimages, acquired as much rational 
theology as the said priest had done by forty 
years perusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think 
of this theory. 

Yours, 

SPUNKIE 



the finest part of God*s works below), hav« 
sensations for the poetic heart that the herd oI 
man are strangers to. — On this last account, 
Madam, 1 am, as in many other thing-*, indebt- 
ed to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in intnulucing 
me to you. Your lovers may view you with a 
wish, I look on you with pleasure ; their hearts, 
in your presence, may glow with desire, mine 
rises with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however they 
should, as incident to humanity, glance a siigh 
wound, may never reach your heart — 'ihut thi 
snares of villany may never beset you in the 
road of life — that innocence may hand you by 
the path of honour to the dwelling of peacb* 
is the sincere wish of him who has the honouf 
to be, &c. 



No. CLXXVn. 



TO MISS K- 



MADAM, 

Pkrmit me to present you with the enclosed 
song as a small though grateful tribute for the 
honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these 
verses, attempted some faint sketches of your 
portrait in the unembellished simple manner of 
descri))tive truth. — Flattery, I leave to your 
f OVERS, whose exaggerating fancies may make 
them imagine you still nearer perfection than 
you really are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most for- 
cibly the powers of beauty ; as, if they are 
really poets of nature's making, their feelings 
must be finer, and their taste more delicate 
than most of the world In the cheerful bloom 
of SPRING, or the pensive mildness of autumn; 
the giandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty 
of WINTER ; the poet feels a charm unknown to 
the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine 
flower, or the company of a fine woman (bv fi*» 



Ko. CLXXVIII. 
TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 

MY LADY, 

The honour you have don« your poor poet, 
in writing him so very obliging a If.tter, and the 
pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given 
him, came very seasonably to his aid amid the 
cheerless gloom and sinking despondency of dis- 
eased nerves and December weather (supposed 
December, 1793), As to forgetting the family 
of Glencairn, Heaven is my witness with wha 
sir.cerity I could use tho^^e old verses which pieasi 
me more in their rude simplicity than the mt 
elegant lines I ever saw. 

If thee Jerusalem I forget, 

Skill part from my right, hand. — 

My tongue to my mouth's roof let ckave. 

If 1 do thee forget 
Jerusalem, and thee above 

My chief joy do not set.— 

When I am tempted to do any thing impw 
per, I dure not. because I look on myself ik> a« 
countahie to your ladyship and family. I7&»* 
and then when I have the honour to b»: calleJ 
to the tables of the great, if I happen to meet 
with any mortification from the stately etupidity 
of self-sufficient squires, or the luxuriant inso- 
lence of upstart nabobs, I get above the crea- 
tures by calling to remembrance that I am pa- 
tronized by the Noble House of Gltrncairn ; and 
at gala-times, such as New-year's day, a chris- 
tening, or the Kirn-night, when ray punch-bow' 
is brought from its dusty corner and filled up io 
honour of the occasion, I begin with, — The 
Countess of Glencairn ! My good woman vvith 
the enthusi&cim of a grateful heart, next cries, 
My Lord ! ard »o the toast goes on until I end 
wi«;h Lady Harriet's little angel I whosa epi 
ciiclamiurh ' haTe pledged myself to write.. 

^ ne«» ^ rtceived your ladyship's letter, I wai 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



375 



tiut in t.ie act of transcribing for you some verses 
I have lately composed ; and meant to have sent 
them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you 
with my late change of life. I mentioned to my 
lord, mv fears concerning my farm. Those 
fears were indeed too true ; it is a bargain would 
have ruined me but for the lucky circumstance 
of my having an excise commission. 

People may talk as they please, of the igno- 
miny of the excise ; ^50 a year will support 
my w^ife and children and keep me independent 
of the world ; and I would much rather have it 
said that my profession borrowed credit from me, 
than that I bo"^ rowed credit from my profession. 
A.iother advantage I have in this business, is 
the knowledge it gives me of the various shades 
of human character, consequently assisting me 
vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had the most 
ardent enthusiasm for the muses when nobody 
knew me, but myself, and that ardour is by no 
means cooled now that ray Lord Glencairn's 
goodness has introduced me to all the world. 
Not that I am in haste for the press. I have no 
idea of publishing, else I certainly had consulted 
my noble generous patron ; but after acting the 
part of an honest man, and supporting my fa- 
nily, my whole wishes and views are directed 
o poetic pursuits. I am aware that though I 
▼ere to give performances to the world superior 
-o my former works, still if they were of the 
^nie kind with those, the comparative recep- 
tion they would meet with would mertify me. 
I have turned my thoughts on the drama. I do 
not mean the stately buskin of the tragic muse. 



Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh 
theatre would be more amused with affectation, 
folly and whim of true Scottish growth, than 
manners which by far the greatest part of the 
audience can only know at second hand ? 
I have the htjnour to be 

Your ladyship's ever devoted 
And grateful humble servant. 



a talent for poetry ; none ever ^rspised it who 
had pretensious to it. The fates and characters 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my thought! 
when I am disposed to be melancholy. There 
is not, among ail the martyrologies that ever 
were penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives oi 
the poets. — In the comparative view of wretches, 
the criterion is not what they are doomed to suf- 
fer, but how they are formed to bear. Take a 
being of our kind, give him a stronger imagi- 
nation and a more delicate seusibility, which be- 
tween them will ever engender a more ungovern- 
able set of passions than are the usual lot of man ; 
implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle 
vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in lin- 
tastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his 
haunt by his chirping song, watching the frlvks 
of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or 
hunting after thk intrigues of butterflies — in 
short, send him adrift after some pursuit which 
shall eternally mislead him from the path of 
lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish 
than any man living, for the plasuies that lucre 
can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his 
woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense oi 
his own dignity, and you have created a wight 
nearly as miserable as a poet. To you. Madam, 
I need not recount the fairy pleasures the mus" 
bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evil 
Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman 
she has in all ages been accused of misleading 
mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the 
paths of prudence, involving them in difliculties, 
baiting them with poverty, branding them with 
infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vor- 
tex of ruin ; yet where is the man but must own 
that all happiness on earth is not worthy the 
name — that even the holy hermit's solitary pros 
pect of paradisaical bliss is but the glitter of a 
northern sun, rising over a frozen region, com- 
pared with the many pleasures, the natnelest 
raptures that we owe to the lovely Queen of the 
heart of Man ! 



No. CLXXIX. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

114 DAM, August, 1793. 

SoMK rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented my doing myself the honour of a second 
visit to Arbieg'and, as I was so hospitably invit- 
ed, and so pc-itive!y meant to have done. — 
However, I stiil hope to have that pleasure be- 
fore the busy months of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind return for the pleasure I have received in 
pfriisirig a certain MS. volumo of poems in the 
piissession of Ciptdin Riddel. To repay one 
with an aid song, is a proverb, whose force you, 
Madam, I know will not allow. What is said 
•.if iUustrious descent is, I believe, er<ually true of 



No. CLXXX. 

TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq. 

SIR, December, 1793. 

It is said that we take the greatest libertiet 
with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
very high compliment in the manner in which 
I am going to apply the remaik. I hav? owed 
you money longer than ever I owed it to any 
man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are six 
guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to 
man — or woman either. But for these damned 
dirty, dog's ear'd little pages,* I had done my 
self the h(mour to have waited on you long ago 
Independent of the obligations your hospitality 



* Scottish bank-noCtaik 



has laid file urxftr, the consciousc »ss of your su- 
periority in the rank of man and gentleman, of 
"tself was fully as much as I could ever make 
head against ; hut to owe you money too, was 
more than I couid face. 

I thmk I once mentioned something of a col- 
lection of Scotch songs I have for some years 
been making : I send you a perusal of what I 
nave got together. I could not conveniently 
Bpare them above five or six days, and five or 
BIX glances of them will probably more than suf- 
fice you. A very few of them are my own. 
When you are tired of them, please leave them 
with Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. There is 
not another copy of the collection in the world ; 
and I shall be so-ry that any unfortunate negli • 
gence should depr"'" me of what has cost me a 
good deal of pain$. 



LETTERS, 179i, 1795, 1796. 

No. CLXXXI. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

WITH A COPY OF " BKUClt's ADURFSS TO HIS 
TROOl'S AT BAN NOCK BURN." 

MY LORD, Dumfries, I2M Jan, 1794. 

Wir.L your lonlship allow me to present you 
with the enclosed little composition of mine, as 
a small tribute ot gratitude for that acquaint- 
ance with which you have been pleased to ho- 
nour me. Independent of my enthusiasm as a 
Scotsman, I have rarely met with any thing in 
nistory which interest my feelings as a man, 
equal with the story of Bannockburn. On the 
one hand, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on 
the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last 
spark of freedom among a greatly-daring, and 
gveatly-injured people : on the other hand, the 
desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting 
themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or 
perish with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly, and indeed 
invaluable ! — for never canst thou be too deaily 
bought ! 

1 have the honour to be, &c. 



No. CLXXXIL 
TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

VrilO NTAS TO BESPEAK A PLAY ONE KVKHIKa 
AT THE DUMFRIES THCATKK. 

I AM thinking to send my Address to some 
periodical publication, but it has not got your 
Bauction, so pray look over it. 

4a to il Tuesday's play, let mtt beg of you, 



my dear Madam, let me beg of jty\x to give ui. 
The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret s tc 
vtr h please adc, Tke Spoiled Child — ^you wiB 
I" ^ly oblige me by so doing. 

Ah. what an enviable creature you are 
There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day^ 
you are going to a party of choice spirits— 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled traio 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before. 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly, painting humour^ grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve. 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that VMeep^ 
and pity your melancholy friend 



No. CLXXXIII. 
TO A LADY 

IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER's BKNEm. 
MADAM, 

You were so very good as to promise me to 
lionour my friend with your presence on hii 
benefit-night. That night is fixed for Friday 
first : the play a most interesting one ! The 
way to keep Him I have the pleasure to know 
Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is gene- 
rally acknowledged. He has genius and worth 
which would do honour to patronage : he is a 
poor and modest man ; claims which, from 
their very silence, have the more forcible power 
on the generi»us heart. Alas, for pity ! that, 
from the indolence of those who have the good 
things of this life in tiieir gift, too often does 
brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, 
the rightful due of retiring, humble, want ! Oi 
all the qualities we assign to the author and di- 
rector of Nature, by far the most enviable is— 
to be able " To wipe away all tears from all 
eyes." O what insignificant, sordid wretches 
are they, however chance may have loaded them 
with wealth, who go to their graves, to their 
magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the con- 
sciousness of having made r>ne poor honest heart 
happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, Madam ; I came n 
\Mtgt not to preach. 



No. CLXXXIV. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 



TO MR. 



1794 
1 AM extremely obliged to you for your kin« 
mention of my interests, in a letter whii 



:hMT 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



STi 



1^ nhowed me. At present, my ^sltuatlon 

in life must be in a great measure stationary, 
it least for two or three years. The stateinetit 
if this — I atn on the supervisor*s list ; and as 
we come on there by precedency, in two or 
three years I shall be at the head of that list, 
»nd be appointed nj' course — then a Friend 
mig^::i be of service to me in getting me into a 
place of the kingdom which I would like. A 
lupervisiir's income varies from about a hundred 
and twenty, to two hundred a-year ; but the 
business is an ince>sant drudgery, and would be 
nearly a complete bar to every species of litera- 
ry pursuit. The moment I am appointed su- 
pervisor in the common routine, I may be no- 
minated on the collector's list ; and this is al- 
ways a business purely of political patronage A 
sollectorship varies much, from better than two 
hundred a-year to near a thousand. They also 
tome forward by precedency on the list, and 
have, besides a handsome income, a life of com- 
plete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a 
1 decent competence, is the summit of my wish- 
es. It would be the prudish affectation of silly 
pride in me, to say that I do not need or would 
Eot be indebted to a political friend ; at the 
same time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs 
before you thus, to hook my dependent situa- 
ti«>n on your benevo!eiice. If, in my progress 
of life, an opening !?hould occur where the good 
offices of a gentleman of your public character 
and political consequence might bring me for- 
ward, I will petition your goodness with the 
same frankness and sincerity as I now do my- 
self the honour to subscribe myself, &c. 



No. CLXXXV. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

DEAR MADAM, 

1 MEANT to have called on you yesternight, 
but as I edged up to your box-door, the tirst 
objec;t which greeted my view, was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dra- 
gon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the 
conditions and capitulations you so obligingly 
offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten 
rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on 
Tuesday, when we may arrange the business of 
the visit. 



Among the profusion of idle compliments 
which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly mces- 
lantly offers at your shrme — a shrine, how far 
acalted above such adoration— permit me, were 
I't but tor rarity's sake, to pay you the honest 
tribute of a warm heart, and an independent) 
aiicd ; and to assure you, that I am, thou most 
kmibie, and most accomplished of thy sex, 
with the most respectful esteem, and fervent va- 
l^id, thine, kc 



No. CLXXXVI. 

TO THE SAME- 

I WILL wait on you, my ever-valued friezA 
but whether in the morning 1 am not sure. 
Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue bu 
siness, and may probably keep me employee 
with my pen until noon. Fine employment for 
a poet's pen ! There is a species of the humac 
genus that I call the fiin-horse class : what en- 
viable dogs they are. Round, and round, and 
round they go, — Mundell's ox that drives hL 
cotton mill, is their exact prototype — without 
an idea or a wish beyond their circle : fat, 
sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented ; 
while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d— 
melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not 
enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor 
of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, 
like a wiW finch, caught amid the horrors of 
winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I 
am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew 
sage prophesied, when he foretold — " And be- 
hold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, 
it shall not prosper !" If my resentment is awak- 
ened, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak ; 
and if— - 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent 
visitors of 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXV U 



TO THE SAME. 



I HATE this moment got the song from 

S , and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt 

it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me bo«r 
I lend him any thing again. 

I have sent you Werter, truly happy to havs 
any the smallest opportunity of obliging you. 

*Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I 

was at W ; and that once froze the very 

life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me 
was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his 
judge, about to pronounce sentence of death on 
him, could only have envied my feelings and si> 
tuation. But I hate the theme, and never more 
shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall pioudly say, that I can pay 
Mrs. a higher tribute of esteem, and ap- 
preciate her amiable worth more truly, than uuf 
raaa whom I have seen approach ber. 



578 



BURNS* WORKS. 



No. CLXXXVTII. 



TO THE SAME. 



1 HAVE often tolfi you, my dear friend, that 
/ou had a spict jf caprice iu your composition, 
and you have as often disavowed it, even per- 
haps whil».' your opinions were, at the moment, 
Irrefragably proving it. Could any thing es- 
trange me from a friend such as you ? — No ! 
To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting 
vn you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most ac- 
complished of women ; even with all thy little 
saprices ! 



No. CLXXXIX. 



TO THE SAME. 



HADAM, 

I RETURN your common-place book. I have 
perused it with much pleasure, and would have 
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the 
critic has torfeited your esteem, his strictures 
must lose their value. 

If it is true that " offences come only from 
the heart," before you I am guiltless. To ad- 
mire, esteem, and prize you, as the most accom- 
plished of women, and the first of friends. — if 
these are crimes, I am the most offending thing 
alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind com- 
placency of friendly confidence, now to find cold 
neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a wrench 
that my heart can ill beui . It is, however, 
Bonie kind of miserable tjoi d !ii. !<' ; that, wliile 
de-haut-en-bas ligour may (iei.i(.>s iiii uinft'end- 
ing wretch to the groiiii<l, it lias a lenciency to 
rouse a stubborn sometlung in lii.> t*us(jm, which, 
though it cannot heal the wounds ot his soul, is 
at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abili- 
ties ; the most sincere esteem, and ardent re- 
gard for your gentle heart and amiable mannera ; 
and the most fervent wish and prayer for your 
welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to 
be. Madam, your most devoted humble servant. 



ners of those great folks whom I iiave no*^ tlie 

honour to cail my acquaintances, the O • 

family, there is nothing charms me more than 
than Mr. O's unconcealable attachment to tha 
incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear 
Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the 
Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O. } 
A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident 
amiable dispositions, and an ingenious upright 
mind, and that informed too, much beyond tha 
usual run of young fellows of his rank and for- 
tune ; and to all this, such a woman ! — but of 
her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of say- 
ing any thing adequate : in my song, I have en 
deavoured to do justice to what would be his 
feelings on seeing, in the scene I have drawn, 
the habitation of his Lucy- As J am a good 
deal pleased with my performance, I in my first 

fervour thought of sending it to Mrs. O , 

but on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer aa 
the honest lucense of genuine respect, might, 
from the well-known character of ptfverty and 
poetry, be construed into some modification or 
other of that servility which my soul abhors*. 



CXCI. 



TO MISS 



No. CXC. 

TO JO N SYME, Esq. 

You know that auioug other high dignities, 
you Lave the honour to be my supreme court 
af critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I enclose you a song which I compos- 
ed since I saw you, and I am going to give you 
the history of it. Do you know that among 
much that I admire in the characters and mau« 



If A DAM. 

NoTHiKG short of a kind of absolute necessi- 
ty could have made me trouble you with this 
letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for 
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment 
arising in my breast, as I put pen to paper to you, 
IS painful. The scenes I have passed with the 
friend of my soul, and his amiable connexions! 
The wrench at my heart to think that he is 
gone, for ever gone from me, never more to 
meet in the wanderings of a weary world ; and 
the cutting reflection of all, that I had most un- 
fortunately, though most undeservedly, lost tha 
confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took 'ta 
flight. 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
anguish. — However, yon, also, may be offended 
with some imputed improprieties of mine ; sen- 
sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none 
will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which, have been 
raised against me, is not the business of this 
letter. Indeed it is a warfan- I know not how 
to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in 
^ome degree calculate, and against direct male- 
volence I can be on my guard ; but who can 
estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward 
off the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly . 

I have a favour to request of you, Madam 
and of your sister Mrs. , through yout 



• The song enclosed was the one beginning with 
" O wat ve wha'« in von tov/n. 



CORRESPONDENCE, 



37S 



means. You know, tliat, at the wish of my late 
friend, [ macje a collection of all my trifles in 
?eise which I had ever written. They are ma- 
• y of them local, some of them Duerile, and sil- 
y, and al! of them unfit for th, public eye. As 
« have some little fame at stake, a fame that 1 
l ust may live, when the hate of those who 
" watch for my ha.ting," and the contumelious 
sneer of those whom accident has made my su- 
periors, wiil, with themselves, be gone to the 
regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the 

fate of ihose manuscripts. — Will Mrs. have 

the goodness to destroy them, or return them to 
one ? As 3 pledge of friendship they were be- 
stowed ; and that circumstance indeed, was all 
their merit. Most unhappily for me, that me- 
.*it they no longer possess, and I hope that Mrs. 

's goodness, which I well know, and ever 

will revere, will not refuse this favour to a man 
■whom she once held in some degree of estima- 
tion. 

With the sincerest esteem I have the honour 
to be, Madam, kc. 



No. CXCIL 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

A MIND DISEASED. 

2bth February, 1794. 
Camst thou minister to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tossed 
on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to 
guide her course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to 
a frame, tremblingly alive to the tortures of sus- 
pense, the stability and hardihood of the rock 
that braves the blast ? If thou canst not do the 
least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in 
my miseries, with thy inquiries after m« ? 



For these two months I have not been able to 
lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab 
9 igine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of 
aypochonuna which poisons my existence. Of 
ate a numoer of domestic vexations, and some 

jjecuniary share in the ruin of these times ; 

losses which, though ifling, were yet what I 
;ould ill bear, have % irritated me, that my 
feelings at times could only be envied by a re- 
probate spirit listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolatioa ? 
I have exhausted in reflection every topic of 
romfort. A heart at ease would have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; 
but as to my>;elf, I was like Judas Isciriot 
preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
tne hearts of those around him, but hii own 
kept its nt.tive incorrigibility. 

Stil' 'Vvere are two great pillars that bear js 



up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery 
The ONE is composed of the different modifica 
tions of a certain noble, stubborn someth'ng 'ik 
man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, 
magnanimity. The othkk, is made up of those 
feelings and sentiments, which, however th« 
sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast dis- 
figure them, are yet, I am convinced, original 
and component parts of the human soul ; those 
senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the 
expression, which connect us with, and link 
us to, those awful obscure realities — an all- 
powerful and equally beneficent God ; and a 
world to come, beyond death and the grave. 
The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray 
of hope beams on the field ; — the Inst pours the 
balm of comfoit into the wounds which time 
can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cuuninghim, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject ot e- 
ligiou at all. I know some who laugh at it, as 
the trick of the crafty few, to lead the und. »• 
cerning many ; or at most as an uncertain ob- 
scurity, which mankind can never know any 
thing of, and with which thty are fools if they 
give themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more 
than I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
would regret that he was shut out from what, 
to me and to others were such superlative sources 
of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and 
for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the 
mind of every child of mine with religion. Il 
my son should happen to be a man of feeling, 
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to 
his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this 
sweet little fellow who is just now running 
about my de>k, will be a man of a melting, ar- 
dent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- 
lighted with the painter, and rapt with the 
poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a 
sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and 
enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring ; 
himself the while in the blooming jwiith of life. 
He looks abroad on all nature, and through na- 
ture up to nature's God. His soul, by swift, 
delighting degrees, is wrapt above this sublu- 
nary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, 
and bursts out iuto the glorious enthusiasm of 
Thomson. — 

'* These, as they change, Almighty Father, thes« 
Aie but the varied God. — The rolling year 

I? full of thee." 

And so on, ia all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hvmu. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; *^hey are rea 
delights, and I ask what of the delights among 
the sons of men are superior, not to say, equa 
to them ? And they have this jxecious, va>t ad- 
dition, that conscious virtue stamps them fo^ 
her owu ; and lays hold on them to bring her 
self into the presence of a witnessing, judginj^ 
and approving God. 



Ko. OXCIII 
TO 

IVrFOSKS HIMSELF TO BE WRITINO FROM THE 
DEAD TO THE LIVING. 

MADAM, 

I DARE saj this is the first epistle you ever 
reoeiveii from this nether world. I write you 
from the regions of Hell, araid the horrors of 
the dama^. The time and manner of my lea- 
ving your earth I do not exactly know ; as I 
vook my departure in the heat of a fever of in- 
toxication, contracted at your too hospitable 
maasiuh ; but on my arrival herf , I was fairly 
tried and sent'.-nced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal coatine, for the space of 
ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
uine days ; and ail on account of the improprie- 
ty of my conduct yesternight under your roof. 
Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with 
my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name, I think, 
is Rtcoilection, with a whip of scorpions, for- 
bids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps 
anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I 
sould in any measure be reinstated in the good 
apinion of the fair circle whom ujy conduct last 
night so much injured, I think it would be an 
alleviation to my torments. For this reason I 
trouble you with this letter. To the men of 
the company I will make no apology. — Your 
husband, who insisted on my drinking more 
than I chose, has no right to blame me ; and 
the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. 
But to you, ftiadam. I have much to apologize. 
Your good o^i.iion I valued as one of the great- 
est acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was 
truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss 

i too, a woman of fine sease, gentle and 

unassuming manners — do make, on my part, a 
miserable d — d wretch's best apology to her. A 

Mrs. G , a charming woman, did me the 

honour to be prejudiced in my favour ; this 
makes me hope that I have not outraged her 
beyond all forgiveness. — To all the other ladies 
please present my humblest contrition for my 
conduct, and my petition for their gracious par- 
don. O all ye powers of decency and decorum ! 
whisper to them that my errors, though great, 
were involuntary — that an intoxicated man is 
the vilest of beasts — that it was not in my na- 
ture to be brutal to any one — that to be rude to 
a woman, when in my senses, was impossible 
with me — but — 



Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
flounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
•^ Madam, your humble slave. 



No. CXCIV. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN 



When you cast your eye on the name at thi 
bottom of this letter, and on the title page o» 
the book I do myself the honour to send youi 
lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my va- 
nity tells me, that it must be a name not entire* 
ly unknown to you. The generous patronage 
of your late illustrious brother found me in the 
lowest obscurity : he introduced my rustic mase 
to the partiality of my country ; and to him I 
owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the 
anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble 
protector and friend, I have endeavoured to ex- 
press in a poem to his memory, which I have 
now published. This edition i just from the 
press ; and in my gratitude to the dead, and my 
respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, 
if you possess not the same dignity of man, 
which was your noble brother's characteristic 
feature), 1 had destined a copy for the Earl of 
Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in 
town : — allow me to present it to you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal con- 
tagion which peivades the world of letters, 
that professions of respect from an author, par- 
ticularly from a poet, to a lord, aie more thaa 
suspicious. I claim my by-past conduct, and 
my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the 
too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honoura 
of your lordship's name, and unnoted as is the 
obscurity of mine ; with the uprightness of an 
honest man, I come before your lordship, witb 
an offering, however humble, 'tis all I have tc 
give, of my grateful respect ; and to beg of you, 
my lord, — 'tis all I have to ask of you, that you 
will do*me the honour to accept of it. 

I have the honour to be, &c* 



No. CXCV. 
TO DR. ANDERSON, 

AUTHOR Ot THE LIVES OF THE F0ET8. 
SIR, 

I AM much indebted to my worthy friend 
Dr. Blacklock for introducing me to a gentle- 
man of Dr. Anderson's celebrity ; but when you 
do me the honour to ask my assistance in youi 
purposed publication, Alas, Sir ! you might ai 
well think to cheapen a litt.e honesty at tht 
sign of an Advocate's wig, or humility under 
the Geneva band. I am a miserable hurried 
devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of 



• The original letter is in the possession of the Ho- 
nourable Mrs. Molland of Poynmgs. From a memo 
randum on the liaek of the letter, it appears to have 
been written in May 1794. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



38) 



koldiLg the noses of the poor publicans to the 
grindstone of Excise ; and like Milton's Satan, 
Cor private reasons, am forced 

To do what yet tho* dam*d 1 would ah- 
hore ;*' — 

tad except a couplet or two of honest execration 



No. CXCVL 
TO MRS. DUNLO» 

Castle Douglas, 5th June, 1794. 

HfRE in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, 
am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy 
as I may. — Solitary confinement, you know, is 
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ; 
90 let me consider by what fatality it happens 
that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to 
neglect the correspondence of the most valued 
friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have 
been in poor health, will not be excuse enough, 
though it is true. I am afraid I am about to 
•uffer for the follies of my youth. My medical 
friends threaten me with a flying gout ; but I 
trust they are mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical pa- 
tience with the first sketch of a stanza I have 
been framing as I paced along the road. The 
subject is LIBERTY : You know, my honoured 
friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design 
it an irregular Ode for General Washington's 
birth -day. After having mentioned the dege- 
neracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotlana 
thus: 

( See Poems, p. 11. ) 

You will probably have another scrawl from 
me in a stage or two. 



I send you by my frieiA^ Mr. Wallace forty, 
one songs for your fifth vcume ; if we cannol 
finish it any other way, what would you think 
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs .' 
In the meantime, at your leisure, give a copy 
of the Museum lo my worthy friend Mr. Peter 
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved 
with blank leaves, exactly as he did the laird 
of Glenriddel's,* that I may insert every anec- 
dote I can learn, together with my cwvn criti- 
cisms and remarks on the songs. — A copy of 
this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to 
publish at some after period, by way of making 
the Museum a book famouii io the end of time, 
and you renowned for ever, 

I have got an Highland dirk for which I have 
great veneration ; as it onco was the dirk of 
Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad hands, who 
stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as 
the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of 
sending it to your care, io get it mounted anew. 

Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer 
Ballad. — Our friend Clarke has done indeed 
well ! It is chaste and beautiful. I have not 
met with any thing that has pleased me so 
much. You know, I 'im no connoisseur ; but 
that I am an amateur — will be allowed me. 



No. CXCVII. 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

UT DEAR FRIEin), 

"Vou should have heard from me long ago; 
but over and above some vexatious share in the 
pecuLiary losses of these accursed times, I have 
all tills winter been plagui;d with low spirits 
and biue devils, so that / have alnutst hung my 
harp un t^te willow trtex. 

I <ini ju>t now busy correcting a new edition 
of n)y |joeins, and this, with my ordinary busi- 
ntss, tind.-^ ni- in full employment. * 



No. CXCVIII. 

TO PETER MILLER, Jun. EsQ-f 
OF DALSWINTON. 

BEAR SIR, Dumfries, Nov. 1794. 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most 
sincerely do I thank you for it ; but in my pre- 
sent situation, I find that I dare not accept it. 
You well know my political sentiments ; and 
were I an insular individual, unconnected with 
a wife and a family of childien, with the most 
fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my 
services : I then could and would have despised 
all consequences that might have ensued. 

My prospect in the Excise is something ; «t 
ieast, it is, encumbered as I am with the wel- 
fare, the very existence, of near half-a-score 
of helpless individuals, what I dare not sport 
with. 

In the mean time, they are most welcome to 



• liums's anxiety with regard to the correctness of 
n li i«iiii;if;s was very great. Being quettioneil as to 
his tnxl'i of ci>:npnsitiin, \te rcpliid, " All my poetry 
IS th" etfc.-; of e!wy <-n<)UK>siiion. Ijiit of laborious cor- 



• 1 his IS the manuscript book containing the re, 
marks on Scottish songs and ballads, presented to thO 
pubhc, with consideraiile additions, in this volume. 

t In a conversation with his friend Mr. f'erry, ithe 
proprietor of " The Morning Chronicle"), Mr. Miller 
represented to that gentleman the insufficiency ot 
Burns's salary to answer the imperious demands of « 
numerous family. In their sympathy for his misfor- 
tunes, and in th ir regret that his talents \*ere nearly 
lo.t to the world of letters, these gentlemen agreed oo 
the plan of .scttlmg him in London. 

To accomplish this most desirable object, Mr. Perry, 
very spiritedly, made the poet a hand.some offer of an 
annual stipend for the exercise of his talents >« his 
newspaper. Burns's reasons for refusing this offer an 
stated in the present letter— Cromek., 



S82 



BURNS WORKS. 



my Ode ; only, let them insert t as a thing 
th'ev h£ve met with by accident and unknown 
to me. — Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, af- 
ter your character of him I cannot doubt ; if 
he will give me an address and channel by which 
any thing will come safe from those spies with 
which he may be certiiin that his correspon- 
dence is beset, I will now and then send him 
any bagatelle that I may write. In the present 
hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics 
will be legarded ; but against the days of peace, 
which Heaven send soon, my little assistance 
may perhaps fill up an idle column of a News- 
paper. I have long had it in my head to try 
my hand in the way of little prose essays, which 
I propose sending into the world through the 
medium of some Newspaper ; and should these 
be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall 
be welcome ; and all my reward shall be, his 
treating me with his paper, which, by the bye, to 
any body who has the least relish for wit, is a 
high treat indeed. 

With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, 
Dear Sir, &c. 



No. CXCIX. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

MY DEAR SIR, Dumfries. 

It is indeed with the highest satisfaction that 
I congratulate you on the return of " days of 
ease, and nights of pleasure,** after the horrid 
hours of misery, in which 1 saw you suffering 
existence when I was last in Ayrshire. I sel- 
dom pray for any body. " I'm baith dead 
sweei-, and wretched ill o't." But most fervent- 
ly do I beseech the great Director of this world, 
that you may live long and be happy, but that 
you may live no longer than while you are 
happy. It is needless for me to advise you to 
have a reverend care of your health. I know 
you will make it a point never, at one time, to 
drink more than a pint of wine; (I meau an 
English pint), and that you will never be wit- 
ness to moie than one howl of punch at a time ; 
and that cold drams you will never more taste. 
I am well convinced too, that after drinking, 
perhaps boiling punch, you will never mount 
your horse and gallop home in • chill, late hour. 
— Above all things, as I understand you are 
now in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges 
of gospel powers. Father Auld, be earnest with 
him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that 
you may see the vanity of vanities iu trusting 
to, or even practising he carnal moral works 
of charity, humanity, ^enerosity, and f >rgive- 
ness ; things which you practised so flagrantly 
that it was evident you delighted in them ; ne- 
glecting, or perhaps, prophanely despising the 
wholesome doctrine of •' Faith without w ^rks, 
the only anchor of salvation." 



A hymn of thanksgivmg would, In my om 
nion, be highly becoming from you at present 
and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly 
press it on you to be diligent in chanting ovef 
the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My 
best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Mise 
Kennedy. 

Yours in the L d 

R. B. 



No. CG 



TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, Juk, 
Dumfries. 

DKAR SIR, Svnday Morning 

I WAS, I know, drunk last night, bat I am so- 
ber this morning. From the expsessions Capt. 
, made use of to me, had I had no- 



body's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
certainly have come, according to the manners 
of the world, to the necessity of murdering one 
another about the business. The words were 
such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace oi 
pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and 
a family of children in a drunken squabble. 
Farther you know that the report of certain 
political opinions being mine, has already once 
before brought me to the brink of destruction. 
I dread lest last night's business may be mis- 
represented in the same way. — You, I beg, 
will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish 
for Mrs. Burns's welfare with the task of wait- 
ing as soon as possible, on every gentleman 
who was present, and state this to him, and, as 
you please, shew him this letter. What, after 
all, was the obnoxious toast? " May our suc- 
cess in the present war be equal to the justice 
of our cause." — A toast that the most outrage- 
ous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I request 
and beg that this morning you will wait on the 
parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall 
only add, that I am truly soriy that a man who 

stood so high in my estimation as Mr. , 

should use me in the manner in which I con 
ceive he has done.* 



* At this period of our Poet's life, when political 
animosity was made the ground of private quarrel, the 
following foolish verses were sent as an attack on 
Burns and his friends for their pohtieal opinions. 
They were written by some member of a club styling 
themselves the ioya/ ATafJvM of Dumfries, or rather 
by the united genius of that club, which was more dis- 
tuiguished for drunken loyalty, than eltlier for re- 
spectability or poetical talent. The verses were hand- 
ed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, aai 
he instantly indorsed the subjoined reply. 

The Loyal Natives' Verses. 

Ve sons of r«dition give ear to my song. 

Let Svme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade everj 

throng. 
With, Cracken the attorney, and Mundell the quack 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



383 



No. CCI. 
to »ra. ALEXANDER FINDLATER, 

SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 



Enclosed are the two schemes. I would 
not have troubled you with the collector's one, 
bat for suspicion lest it be not right. Mr. Ers- 
kiue promised me to make it right, if you will 
have the goodnes to shew him how. As I have 
no copy of the scheme for myself, and the alter- 
ations bein^ very considerable from what it was 
formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this 
•cheme I send you, when I come to face up my 
new books. So much for schemes. — And tliat 
no scheme to betray a friend, or mislead a 

STRANGER ; tO SeduCC a YOUNG GIRL, Of fob 

a HENROOST ; to subvert liberty, or bribe an 
exciseman; to disturb the general assem- 
bly, or annoy a gossipping ; to overthrow the 
credit of orthodoxy, or the authority of old 
songs ; to oppose j/our wishes, or fi-ustrate my 
hopes — MAY PROSPER — is the sincere wish and 
prayer of 

ROBT. BURNS. 



No. ecu. 



TO THE EDITORS OF THE MORNING 
CHRONICLE.' 

tENTLEMEN, Dumfries. 

You will see by your subscribers' list, that 
I have now been about nine months one of that 
number. 

I am sorry to inform you, that in that time, 
■even or eight of your papers either have nevei 
Deen sent me, or else have never reached me. 
To be deprived of any one number of the first 
newspaper in Great Britain for information. 



^wrnj— extempore. 

iTe true '• Loyal Natives" attend to my song. 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; 

From entp and hatred your corps is exempt ; 

But where is your shield from the darts of contempt? 

• This letter owes its origin to the following cir. 
eumstance. A neighbour of the Poet's at Dumfries, 
Bailed OP him and cim plained that he was greatly di« 
appointed in the irregular delivery of the Paper of 
The Morning Chronicle. Burns asked, " Wny do 
not yoij write to the Editors of the Paper?" Good 
God, Sir, can / presume to write to the learned Edi- 
tors of a Newspaper ? — Well, \i you are afraid of writ- 
hig to the Editors oi a Newspaper / am not; and if 
*ou think proper, I'll draw up a sketch of a letter, 
which you may copy 

Burns tore a leaf from his excise book a' d instantly 
•rwluced the sketch which I have transcribed, and 
Which is here printed. The poor man thanked him, 
and took fhe letter home. However, that caution 
which the watchfulness (>f his enemies had taught him 
to exercise, prompted him to the prudence of begging 
a friend to wait on the person for whom it was writ, 
ten, an:l requ<Ht the favour to have it returned. This 
•equeit was complied with, and the paper never ap- 
fearad o print. 



ability and independence, is what I can ill brook 
and bear • but to be deprived of that most ad- 
mirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdown^ 
when he made the great, though ineffectual at- 
tempt, (m the language of the poet, I fear too 
true,) '' to save a sinking state" — this was 
a loss which 1 neither can, nor will forgive you. 
— That paper. Gentlemen, never reached me ; 
but I demand it of you. I am a briton ; and 
must be interested in the cause of liberty : — • 
I am a man ; and the rights of human na- 
ture cannot be indifferent to me. However, 
do not let me mislead you : I am not a man in 
that situation of life, which, as your subscriber, 
can be of any consequence to you, in the eyes 
of those to whom situation of life alonk 
is the criterion of man — I am but a plain 
tradesman, in this distant, obscure country 
town : but that humble domicile in which ] 
shelter my wife and children, is the castellum 
of a BRITON ; and that scanty. Lard-earned in- 
come which supports them, is as truly my pro- 
perty, as the most magnificent fortune, of the 
most PUISSANT member of your house of 

NOBLES. 

These, Gentlemen, are my sentiments ; and 
to them I subscribe my name : and were I a 
man of ability and consequence enough to ad- 
dress the PUBLIC, with that name should they 
appear. 

I am, &c. 



No. CCIIL 

TO COL. W. DUNBAR 

I am not gone to Elysium, most noble Co- 
lonel, but am still here in this sublunary worloi^ 
serving my God by propagating his imsge, an*' 
honouring my king by begetting him loyal sub- 
jects. Many happy returns of the season await 
my friend ! May the thorns of care never be- 
Htt his path ! May peace be an inmate of his 
bosom, and rapture a frequent visitor of his 
soul ! May the blood-hounds of misfortune ne- 
ver trace his steps, nor the screech-owl of sor- 
row alarm his dwelling ! May enjoyment telf 
thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thou 
friend of the Bard ! Blessed be he that bles^ 
eth thee, and cursed be he that curseth thee ' 



No. CCIV. 
TO MISS FONTENELLE, 

ACCOMPANYING A PROLOGUE TO BE SPOKBII 
FOR HER BENEFIT. 

MA OAK, 

In such a bad world as ours, those who ad« 
to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are posi 



384 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tively OUT benefactors. To you., Madam, on 
!>ur humble Dumfries boards, I have been more 
indebted for entertainment than ever I was in 
prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman | 
would insure applause to the most indifferent 
actress, and your theatrical talents would insure 
admiration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, 
is not the unmeaning, or insidious compliment 
of the frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the 
same honest impulse that the sublime of nature 
excites my admiration, or her beauties give me 
delight. 

Will the foregoing lines be of any service to 
you on your approaching benefit night ? If they 
will, I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. 
They are nearly extempore : I know they have 
no great merit ; but though they should add but 
little to the entertainment of the evening, they 
give me the happiness of an opportunity to de- 
clare how much I have the honour to be, &c. 

ADDRESS. 

Spoken hy Miss Fontenellk on her benefit- 
night, Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dum- 
fries. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
Twould vamp my bill, said 1, if nothing better; 
St), sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. 
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. — 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

rhymes : 
*» I know your bent — these are no laughing 

times : 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears. 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence. 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent- 
ance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land !" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face v/as made for cry- 
ing ? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world 

shall know it ; 
And so, your servant — gloomy Master Poet. 

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief. 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy d — 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 
Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three puineas do the work of five : 



Laugh in Misfortune's face— the beh'fam witcll 
Say, yv'i'll be merry, though you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love^ 
Who long with jiltish arts and liirs hast strove j 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope-— thr 

neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Pferest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf, 
Laugh at heir follies — laugh e'en at thyself ; 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific. 
And love a kinder — that's your grand speci • 

fie. — 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise , 
And as we're merry, may we still be wiae.— * 



No. CCV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MY UEAR FRiENDi \bth December, 1794'. 

As I am in a complete Decembrish humour 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of Dul- 
ness herself should wish, I shall not drawl out a 
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies, 
for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, 
because I know you will symj)athize in it : t.hesa 
four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest 
child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or 
less threatened to terminate her existence. There 
had much need be many pleasures annexed to 
the stiites of husband and father, for God knows, 
they have many peculiar cares. I cannot de- 
scribe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these 
ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless 
little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; 
and on what a brittle thread does the life of man 
hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate ; 
even in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such 
things happen every day — gracious God ! what 
would become of my little flock ! 'Tis htre thaJC 

I envy your people of fortune A father on his 

death-beil, taking an everlasting leave of his 
children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man 
of competent fortune leaves his sons and daugh- 
ters independency and friends ; while I — but I 
shall run distracted if I think any longer on the 
subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravey» 
shall sing with the old Scots baliad-^ — 

" O that I had ne'er been married, 
I would never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bkirns, 
They cry, crowdie, evermair. 

Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony mair. 

Ye' II crowdie a' my meal away.'*-* 



CORRESP0^'DENCK 



December 24M. 
'^ e \ivre bad a brillian'/ t\jeatre here, this sea- 
■oa ; only, as hII other business has, it experi- 
ences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the country, want of cash. I men- 
tion our theatre merely to lug in an occasional 
Address, which I wrote for the benefit-night of 
one of the actresses, and which is as follows : — 
( See Address, p. 384. > 

2bth, Christmas, Morning. 

This, my mu'.'h -loved fiiend, is a morning of 
wishes : accept mine — so Heaven hear me as 
they are sincere ! that blessings may attend your 
steps, and affliction know you not ! In the 
charming words of my favourite author, The 
Man of Feeling, " May the great spirit bear up 
the weight of thy grey hairs ; and blunt the ar- 
row that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like 
0>wper ? is not the Task a glorious poem ? The 
religion of the Tusk, bating a itw scraps of Cal- 
vinistic divinity, is the religion of God and Na- 
ture : the religion that exalts, that ennobles man. 
Were not you to send me your Zeluco in return 
for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and 
Bote* through the book. I would not give a far- 
thing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot 
it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters ; I mean those which I first 
•ketchetl, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
flrrote out fair. Oc looking over some old musty 
papers, which from time to time I had parcelled 
by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, 
and which yet, at the same time, I did not care to 
destroy, ' discovered many of those rude sketches, 
•nd have written, and am writing them out, in 
a bound MS. for my friend's library. As I 
wrote always to you the rhapsody of the moment, 
I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one, 
about thf commencement of our acquaintance. 
If there were any possible conveyance, I would 
■eod you a perusal of my book. 



No CCVI. 

TO MR. HERON, OF HERON. 

SIR, 1 794, or 1 795. 

I ENCLOSE you some copies of a couple of po- 
litical ballads ; one of which, I believe, you have 
never seen. Would to Heaven I could make 
you master of as many votes in the Stewartry. 
But— 

*• Who does the utmost that he can, 
Does well, acts nobly, angels could no mote." 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear 
wittk more effect on the foe, I have p»-ivatrly 
oimted a ^j<>il ui.ia} cooie:' of both balltult, aud 



have sent them among friends all ai>9ut the c«a» 

try. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobatioa 
of character, the utter dereliction of all princi- 
ple, in a profligate junto which has not only 
outraged virtue, bui v'olated common decency , 
which, spurning even hypocrisy as paltry ini- 
quity below their daring ; — co unmask their fla- 
gitiousness to the broadest day — to deliver such 
over to their merited fate, is surely not merely 
innocent, but laudable ; is not only propriety, 
but virtue. — You have already, as your auxilia- 
ry, the sober detestation of mankind on the 
heads of your opponents ; and I swear by the 
lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all the vo- 
taries of honest laughter, and fair, candid ridi- 
cule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests in a letter whick Mr. 
Syme .lewed me. At present, my situation in 
life must be in a great measure stationary, at 
least for two or three years. The statement is 
this — I am on the supervisors' list, and as we 
come on there by piecedency, in two or three 
years I shall be at the head of that list, and be 
ap|)ointed, of course. Then a friend might 
be of service to me in getting me into a place 
of the kingdom which I would like. A super- 
visor's income varies from about a hundred and 
twenty, to two hundred a year ; but the busi 
ness is an incessent drudgery, and would be 
nearly a complete bar to every species of litera- 
ry pursuit. The moment I am appointed su- 
pei visor, in the common routine, 1 may be no- 
minated on the collector's list ; and this is al 
ways a business purely of political patronage. 
A collectorsihip varies much, from better than 
two hundred a year to near a thousand. They 
also come forward by precedency on the list ; 
and have besides a handsome income, a life of 
complete leisure. A life of literary leisure with 
a decent competence, is the summit of my wishes. 
It would be the prudish affectation of silly pride 
in me to say that I do not need, or would not 
be indebted to a political friend ; at the same 
time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before 
you th'is, to hook my dependant situation on 
your l/enevolence. If, in my progress of Sife^ 
an o^eniui^ should occur where the good offices 
of a gentleman of your public character and po- 
litical "onsequence might bring nie forward, 
shall petition your goodness with the samt 
frankness as I now do myself the Lonour to sub 
scribe myself, &c*. 



• Part of this letter appears ti Or C%rTW» ag. 9»> i 
ii. p. 430. ■ 



'i><Q 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CCVIL 
\DDRLSS OF THE SCOTS DISTILLERS, 



THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 



ilR, 



While pursy burgesses crowd your gate, 
sweating under the weight of heavy addresses, 
permit us, the quondam distillers in that part 
of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach 
you, not with venal approbation, but with fra 



clime of political faith and manners, flocked to 
your branches ; and the beasts of the field, f th« 
lordly possessors of hills and vallies, ) crowded 
under your shais. •' But behold a watcher, a 
holy one canvj down from heaven, and cried 
aloud, and said thus : Hew down the tree, and 
cut »S his branches ; shake off his leaves, and 
scatter his fruit ; let the beasts get away from 
under it, and the fowls from his branches!" A 
blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of those 
terrible accidents which peculiarly mark the 
hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and 
laid all your fancied honours in the dust. Bui 
turn your eyes. Sir, to the tragic scenes of ou? 



ternal condolence; not as what you are justifat^, — ^n ancient nation that for many ages 
now, or for some time have been ; but as what, had gallantly maintained the unequal struggle 
in all nrobability, you will shortly be. — We shall f(,r independence with her much more powerfc^ 
nave the merit of not deserting our friends in 
the day of their calamity, and you will have the 



satisfaction of perusing at least one honest ad 
dress. You are well acquainted with the dis- 
section of human nature ; nor do yon need the 
assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to intoini 
vou, that man is always a selfish, often a perfi- 
dious being This assertion, however the hasty 

conclusions of superficial observation may doubt 
»f it, or the raw inexperience of youth may de- 
ny it, those who make the fatal experiment we 
have done, will feel. You are a statesman, and 
consequently are not ignorant of the traffic of 
these corporation con^ipliments. — The little great 
man who drives the borough to market, and the 
very great man who buys the borough in that 
market, they two do the whole business ; and 
you well know, they, likewise, have their price. 
— With that sullen disdain which you can so 
well assume, rise, illustrious Sir, and spurn 
these hireling efforts of venal stupidity. At best 
they are the compliments of a man's friends on 
the morning of his execution : They take a de- 
cent farewell ; resign vou to your fate ; and hur- 
ry away from youi approaching hour. 

If fame say true, and omens be not very much 
mistaken, you are about to make your exit from 
that world where the sun of gladness gilds the 
paths of prosperous men : permit us, great Sii , 
with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your 
passage to the realms of ruin. 

Whether the sentiment proceed from the sel- 
fishness or cowardice of mankind is imntaterial ; 
but to point out to a child of misfortune those 
who are still more unhappy, is to give him some 
degree of positive enjoyment. In this light, Sir, 
our downfal may be agiin useful to you : — 
Thotigh not exactly in the same way, it is not 
perhaps the first time it has gratified your fee! 



neighbour, at last agrees to a union which should 
ever after make them one people. In ccnsi- 
deiarion of certain circumstances, it was cove- 
nanteii that the former should enjoy a stipulat- 
ed alleviation in her share of the public bur- 
dens, particularly in that branch of the revenue 
called the Excise. This just privilege has of 
late given great umbrage to some interested, 
powerful individuals of the more potent part of 
the empire, and they have spared no wicked 
pains, under insidious pretexts, to subvert what 
they dared not openly to attack, from the dread 
which they yet entertained of the spirit of their 
ancient enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell ; nor did we alone 
suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A 
number of (we will say ) respectable individuals, 
largely engaged in trade, where we were not 
only useful but absolutely necessary to our coun- 
try in h^r dearest interest; we, with all that 
was near and dear to us, were sacrificed with- 
out remorse, to the infernal deity of political ex- 
pediency ! We fell to gratify the wishes of dark 
envy, and the views of unprincipled ambition ! 
Your foes, Sir, were avowed ; were too brave 
to take an ungenerous advantage ; you fell in 
the face of day. — On the contrary, our enemies, 
to complete our overthrow, contrived to make 
their guilt appear the villainy of a nation. — 
Youi downfal only drags with you your pri» 
vate friends and partizans : In our misery are 
more or less involved the most numerous, and 
most valuable part of the community — all those 
who immediately depend on the cultivation of 
the soil, from the landlord of a province, down 
to the lowest hind. 

Allow us. Sir, yet farther, just to hint at an- 
other rich vein of comfort in the dreary regions 
of adversity ; — the gratulations of an approving 



ings. It is true, the triumph of your evil star conscience. In a certain great assembly, o( 
IS exceedingly despiteful. — At an age when i which you are a distinguished member, pane- 
others are the votaries of pleasure, or underlings gyrics m your private virtues have so often 
m business, you had attained the highest wish ' wounded your delicacy, that we shall not dis- 
of a British Statesman ; and with the ordinary tress you with any thing on the subject. There 
date of human life, what a prospect was before ; is, however, one part of your public conduct 
vou . Deeply roo' ed in Royal Favour, you which our feelings will not permit us to past 
overshadowed the .and. The birds of passage, | in silence ; our gratitude must trespass on your 
vhich follow miuiaterial sunshine through every \ iBodeB>7 we mean, worthv Sir, your whok 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



38; 



behaviour to tlie Scots Distil'if s. — In evil hours, 
when obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on 
the sense, let that, Sir, come like a healing 
angel, and speak the peace to your soul which 
the world can neither give nor take away. 
We have the honour to be, 
Sir, 
Your sympathizing fellow-sufferers. 

And grateful humble Servants, 
John Barleycokn— Preses. 



No. CCVIII. 

1\0 THE HON. THE PROVOST, BAIL- 
IES, AND TOWN-COUNCIL OF DUM- 
FRIES. 

aSKTLEMBN, 

The literary taste and liberal spirit of your 
good town has so ably filled the various depart- 
ments of your schools, as to make it a very 
great object for a parent to have his children 
educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with 
my large family, and very stinted income, to 
give my young ones that education I wish, at 
the high school-fees which a stranger pays, will 
bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did me the 

honour of making me an honorary burgess 

Will you allow me to request that this mark of 
distinction may extend so far, as to put me on 
the footing of a real freeman of the town, in 
the schools ? 



If you are so very kind as to grant my re- 
quest,* it will certainly be a constant incentive 
to me to strain every nerve where I can offi- 
cially serve you ; and will, if possible, increase 
that grateful respect with which I have the ho- 
nour to be, 

Gentlemen, 
Your devoted humble Servant. 



No. CCIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, 20th December, 1795. 
I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this 
London journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
in the country, and did not return until too 
Ute to answer your letter ; in the next place, 
I thought you would certainly take this route ; 
and now I know not what is become of you, or 
ivhether tbi» may reach you at all. God grant 



that it may find you anJ yours in prospering 
health and good spirits. Do let me hear from 
you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend 
Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take 
up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes 
first, prose or poesy, sermon or song. In this 
last article, I have abounded of late. I have 
often mentioned to you a superb publication of 
Scottish songs which is making its appearance 
in your great metropolis, and where I have the 
honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as nc 
less a personage than Peter Pindar does over 
the English. I wrote the following for a fa- 
vourite air. 



December 29. 
Since I began this letter I have been ap* 
pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here, 
and I assure you, what with the load of business, 
and what with that business being new to me, I 
could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to 
have spoken to you, had you been in town, 
much less to have written you an epistle. This 
appointment is only temporary, and during the 
illness of the present incumbent ; but I look 
forward to an early period when I shall be ap- 
pointed in full form : a consummation devout- 
ly to be wished ! My political sins seem to be 
forgiven me. 



♦ Thia request was immediately oompUed with. 



This is the season (New-year's-day is now 
my date) of wishing ! and mine are most fer 
vently offered up for you ! May life to you be a 
positive blessing while it lasts, for your own 
sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, 
is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake 
of the rest of your friends ! What a transient 
business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but 
t'other day I was a young man ; and I already 
begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints 
of old age coming fast o'er my frame. With 
all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few vice« 
of manhood, still I congratulate myself on hav- 
ing had, in early days, religion strongly impress- 
ed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any 
one as to which sect he belongs to, or what 
creed he believes ; but I look on the man who 
is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and good' 
ness, superintending and directing every cir- 
cumstance that can happen in his Ir* — I felici- 
tate such a man as having a solid fov-ndation for 
his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure 
stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and dis- 
tress ; and a never-failing anchor of hope, when 
he looks beyond the grave. 



January 12. 
Yc\f will have seen our worthy and ingeni- 
ous fr-ea I, the Doctor, long ere this. I hjps 



586 



BURNS* WORKS. 



be is well, and beg to be remembered to him. 
I have just been reading over again, I dare say 
for the hundred and fiftieth time, his View of 
Society and Manners ,• and still I read it with 
delight. His humour is perfectly original — it 
is neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, 
nor Sterne, nor of any body but Dr. Moore. 
By the bye, you have deprived me of Zelvco ; 
remember that, when you are disposed to rake 
up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes 
of laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
quoting me in His last publication. * 



No. CCX. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

20th January, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to you for 
allowing me a longer perusal of Anacharsis. 
In fact, I never met with a book that bewitch- 
ed me so much ; and I, as a member of the li- 
brary, must warmly feel the obligation you have 
laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is 
stronger than to any other individual of our so- 
ciety ; as Anacharsis is an indispensable desi- 
deratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's 
card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. 1 
have not been able to leave my bed to-day till 
about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky 
advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, 
and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. The 
f >l]owing detached stanzas I intend to interweave 
ii some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 



No. CCXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

31st January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two 
jackets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I 
have committed against so highly valued a 
friend, I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! 
Madani, ill can I afford, at this time, to be de< 
pi ived of any of the small remnant of my plea- 
sures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of 
affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only 
daughter and darling child, and that at a dis- 
tance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my 
power to pay the last the duties to her. I had 



scarcely begun to recover from tha* jhoelc, wbei 
I became myself the victim of a most severe 
rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful 
until after manv weeks of a sick-bed, it seem* 
to have turned up life, and I am beginning to 
crawl across my room, and once indeed have 
been before my own door in the str»«et. 

Wlien pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray.. 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 

That shuts, for erer shuts ! ie's doubtfiiJ 
day. 



CCXII. 



TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIRTH 
DAT ASSEMBLT ON THAT DAY TO SHEW HIS 
LOYALTY. 

M June, 1796. 
I AM in such miserable health as to be utter 
ly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. 
Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every 
face with a greeting like t lat of Balak to Ba- 
laam — " Come curse me Jacob; and come de- 
fy me Israel '" So say I — Come curse me that 
east wind ; and come, defy me the north ' 
Would you have mc, in such circumstances, to 
copy you out a love song ? 



I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I 
will not be at the ball. — Why should 1 ? " man 
delights not me, nor woman either !** Can you 
supply me with the song, Let us all be unhap- 
py together? — do if you can, and oblige U 
pauvre miserable R. B. 



• Edward. 



No. CCXIIL 

Tu PJR. JAMES JOHNSON, Edinburgh, 

Dumfries, July 4, 1796 
How are you, my dear friend, and ht w comes 
on your fifth volume ? You may probably 
think that for some time past I have neglected 
you and your work ; but, alas ! the hand ol 
pain, and soi-row, and care, has these many 
months lain heavy on me ! Personal and do- 
mestic affliction have almost entirely banished 
that alacrity and life with which I used to wci 
the rural muse of Scotia. 



You are a good, wr)rthy, honest fellow, and 
have a good right to live in this world — because 



pm deserve it Many a merry meeting this 
publication has given us, and possible it may 
five us more, though, alas ! I fear it. This 
protracting, slow, cunsumiDg illness which 
hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever 
dear friend, arrest my sun before be has well 
reached his middle career, and will turn ovei- 
the poet to far other and more important con- 
cern!} than studying the brilliancy of wit, or the 
pathos of sentiment ! However, hope is the 
oordial of the human heart, and 1 endeavour to 
cherish it as well as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. 
—Your work is a great one ; and now that it 
is near finished, I see, if we were to begin 
again, two or three things that might be mend- 
ed ; yet I will venture to prophecy, that to fu- 
ture ages your publication will be the text- 
book and standard of Scottish song and music. 

I am afchamed to asK another favour of you, 
because you have been so very good already ; 
but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, 
a young lady who sings well, to whom she 
wishes to preser.t the Scots Musical Museum. • 
If you have a spare copy, will you be so oblig- 
iaf as to send it by the very first Fly, as I am 
to have it soon. 

Yours ever, 
ROBERT BURNa 



No. CCXIV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-bathing Quarters, 7th July, 1796. 

MT DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 

I RECEIVED yours here this moment, and am 
indeed highly flattered with the approbation of 
the literary circle you mention ; a literary circle 
inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! 
my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon 
be heard among you no more ! for these eight or 
ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed- 
fast and sometimes nut ; but these last three 
nonths I have been tortured with un excruciate 
ing rheumatism, which has reduced me to near- 
ly the last stage. You actually would not know 
me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so 
feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair 
—my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on 
the subject — only the medical folks tell me that 
my last and only chance is bathing and country 



• In this humble- and delicate manner did piior 
Bums ask for a copy of a work of which he was prin- 
cipally the founder, and to which he had contributed, 
gratuitotuly, not less than 184 original, altered, and 
eoUected Moiigt I The Editor has seen 180 transcribed 
•y his own hand, for \.Y\e Muteum. 

This letter was wrMten on the 4th of July, — the poet 
died on the 2l8t No other letu-rs of this interesting 
period hav<> been di^tcuverod, except one addressed to 
Mrs. Dunlop, of the 12th of July, which Dr. Currie 
very properly supposes to be the laat production of the 
dyinc bard. — Cbohsk. 



qnarteni, and riding. The deuce of the matter 
is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, his sa- 
lary is reduced to ^£35 instead of £,bO — What 
way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain my- 
self and keep a horse in country quarters — with 
a wife and five children at home, on ^35 ? 
mention this, because I had intended to beg yout 
utmost interest, and that of all the friends you 
can muster, to move our Commissoners of Ex- 
cise to grant me the full salary. I dare say you 
know them all personally. If they do not grant 
it me, I must lay my account with an exit truly 
en poete — if I die not of disease, I must perish 
with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
when I will send it you. Apropos to being at 
home, Mrs. Burns threatens in a week or two 
to add one more to my paternal charge, which, 
if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduc- 
ed to the world by the respectable designation of 
Alexander Cunningham Sums : My last waa 
James Glencairn ; so you can have no objec« 
tion to the company of nobility. Farewell 



No. CCXV 

TO MRS BURNS. 

MT DEART5T T.oVE, Brow, Thu'sdatf, 

I DELAYED Writing until I could tell yon 
what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. 
It would be injustice to deny that it has eased 
my pains, and I think has str»ngtnened me ; 
but my appetite is still extreniely bad. No flesh 
nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and milk are 
the only thing I can taste. I am very happy to 
beat , by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are we.*. 
My very best and kindest compliments to he.' 
and to all the children. I will see you on Sua* 
day. Your affectionate husband, R. B» 



CCXVI 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

M ^AM, I2th July, 1796. 

HAVE written you so often, without recei- 
viijf^ any answer, that I would not trouble you 
again, but for the circumstances in which I am. 
An illness which has long hung about me, in 
all probability will speedily send me beyond that 
b'lume whence no traveller returns. Your 
friendship, with which for many years you ho* 
noured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. 
Your conversation, and CKpeciaily your corre- 
spondence, were at once highly entertaining and 
instructive. With what pleasure did I use to 
XMk up the aeal ! The remembrance yet addt 



BURNS WORKS. 



me pulse mora vo my poor palpitating heart. 
^•«^weU ! ! ! 

R. B, 



The buuvc .• supposed to be the last produc- 
«on of Robert Burns, who died on the 21st 
of the month, nine days afterwards. He had, 
however, the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory 
explanation of his friend's ^lence, and an assur- 
ww «f the coo wo/^s» 9i Wr lirieodkbi to himi 



widow and childreu -, an «warance that has IMMI 
amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her lefe* 
ters to him were destroyed by our bard aboo 
the time that this last was written. He did 
not foresee that his own letters to her wei« M 
appear in print, nor conceive the disappoint* 
ment that will be felt, that a few of this exieA' 
lent lady's hav» sot aerved to 
tb' 



SSI 



THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE 

WITH 

MR. GEORGE THOMSON. 



1 B« Poet, besides his ample contributions to the Musical Museum, published by Johnson, fe»»^ 
gaged in the somewhat similar, but far more extended undertaking of Mr. George Thonison, 
entitled Select Melodies of Scotland, — a Work more systematically planned, and scientificallj' 
executed, as to the Music — and more chastened in the composition and sentiment of thf 
Songs, than any of its precursors ; and which still maintains its superiority over all other col- 
lections as the National Repertory of Scottish Song, both as to the poetry and music. The 
following Correspondence shews the rise and progress, With much of the interesting ietaih 
of our Poet's contributions to Mr. Thomson's Work ;— 



No. I. 
WR, THOMSON TO THE POET, 

SOLICITING HIS CO-OPERATION. 

tfR, Edinburgh, September 1792. 

For some years past, I have, with a friend or 
two, employed many leisure hours in selecting 
and collating the most favourite of our national 
melodies for publication. We have engnged 
Pleyel, the most agreeable composer living, to 
put accompaniments to these, and also to com - 
pose an instrumental prelude and conclusion to 
each air, the better to fit them for concerts, both 
public and private. To render this work per- 
fe'-t, we are dttsirous to have the poetry impro- 
ved, wherever it seems unworthy of the music ; 
and that it is so in many instances, is allowed 
by every one conversant with our musical col- 
kctions. The editors of these seem in general 
to have depended on the music proving an ex- 
cuse for the verses ; and hence, some charming 
melodies are united to mere nonsense and dog- 
grel, while others are accommodated with rhymes 
BO louse and indelicate, as cannot be sung in de- 
cent company. To remove this reproach, would 
be an easy task to the author of l^ie Cotter's 
Saturday Night ; and, for the hontmr of Cale- 
donia, I would fain hope he may be induced to 
take up the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to 
present the puhl.c with a collection infinitely 
more interesting than any that has yet appear- 
ed, and acceptahie to all persons of taste, whe- 
ther they wish for correct melodies, delicate ac- 
eompaniments, or characteristic verias. — We 



will esteem your poetical assistance a partiratac 
favour, besides paying any reasonable price you 
shall please to demand kn it. Profit is quite a 
secondary consideration with us, and we are re- 
solved to spare iteither pains nor expense on the 
publication. Tell me frankly, then, whether 
you will devote your leisure to writing twenty 
or twenty-five songs, suited to the particular 
melodies which I am prepared to send you. A 
few songs, exceptionable only in some of their 
verses, i will likewise submit to your considera- 
tion ; leaving it to you, either to mend these, 
or make new songs in their stead. I* is super- 
fluous to assure you that I have no intention to 
displace any of the sterling old songs ; those 
only will be removed, which appear quite si'V, 
or absolutely indecent. Even these shall all Uc 
examined by Mr. Burns, and if he is of opinior: 
thit any of thein are deserving of the music, in 
such cases no divorce shall take place. 

Ri-lying on the letter accompanying this to be 
forgiven for the liberty I have taken in aduress- 
ing you, I am, with great esteem, Sii, you; 
most obedient humble servant, 

G. THOMSON 



No. II. 

THE POET'S ANSWER, 

SIR, Dumfries, ]6th Sept. 179g 

I HAVE just this moment got your letter. Aj 
the requett you make to me will poutivelv adj 



BURNS' WORKb. 



kj my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall 
^nter into your undertaking with all the small 
puttion of abilities 1 have, strained to their ut- 
uiost exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hun y me: " Deil tak the hind- 
most" is by no means the cri de guerre of my 
muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of 
you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and 
music of old Caledonia, and, since you request 
it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assist- 
ance — will you let me have a list of your airs, 
with the first line of the printed verses you in- 
tend for them, that I may have an opportunity 
of suggesting any alteration that may occur to 
me. You know 'tis in the way of my trade ; 
still leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right 
of publisher's, to approve, or reject, at your plea- 
sure, for youi "wn ptMicatio^ Apropos! if 
you are for JSnghit,^ ^erses, "^ere i^ ">n. my part, 
an end of the matter. Wheth , " ' tht ' '^ plicity 
of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, 1 can 
only hope to please myself in being allowed at 
least a sprinkling of our native tongue. Eng- 
lish verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, 
that have merit, are certainly very eligible. 
Ticeedside ; Ah the poor shepherd^s mournful 
fate ! Ah Chioris, could I now but ait, &c. 
you cannot mend : But such insipid stuff as, 
To Fanny fair could I impart, &c. usually set 
to The Mill, Mill O, is a disgrace to the col- 
lections in which it has already appeared, and 
would doubly disgrace a collection that will have 
the very superior merit of yours. But more of 
this in the farther prosecution of the business, 
if I am called on for njy strictures and amend- 
ments — I say, amendn»ent8 ; for I will not alter 
except where I myself at least think that I 
imund. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my 
8ongs either above or below price ; for they 
shail absolutely De the one or the other. In the 
honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your 
undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, 
&c. would be downright prostitution of soul f 
A proof of each of the songs that I compose or 
amend, I shall receive as a favour. In tlie rus- 
tic phrase of the season, " Gude speed the 
wark !" 

I am, Sir, your very bumble Servant, 
R. BURNS. 

P. S.— I have some particular reasons for 
vithing my interference to be knuwn as little as 
possible. 



No. in. 

MR THOMSON IN REPLV. 

D«*a SIR, Edinhuryh, ISM Oct. 1799. 

I RRi'KivEn, with much satisfaction, your 
plt-as^aut axid obliging letter, and 1 return my 



warmest arknowledgments for the enthuMasm 
with which you have entered into our underta- 
king. Ne have now no doubt of being able tc 
pr:.duce a collection, highly deserving of public 
attention, in all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English verses, 
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new 
verses are necessary ; because the English be- 
comes every year, more and more, the language 
of Scotland ; but, if you mean that no English 
verses, except those by Scottish authors, ought 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from 
you. I shoul.' consider it unpardonable to sa- 
crifice one good sl.^* in the Scottish dialect, ta 
make room for Englis.. .erses ; but, if we can 
select a few excellent ones suited to the unpro- 
vided or ill-provided airs, would it not be the 
very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such 
mei-ely because the authors were born sm.rh d 
the Tweed? Our sweet air, My Nann-u O, 
which in the collections is joined to the poorest 
stuff that Allau Ramsay ever wrote, begiiming 
While some for pleasure pawn their health, an- 
swers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful song 
O Nancy wilt thou go with me, that one woula 
think he wrote it on purpose for the air. How- 
ever, it is not at all our wish to confine you to 
English verses : you shall freely be allowed a 
sprinkling of your native tongue, as you elegant- 
ly express it; and moreover, we will patiently 
wait your own time. One thing only I beg, 
which is, that however gay and sportive the 
muse may be, she may always be decent. Let 
her not write what beauty would blush to speak, 
nor wound that charming delicacy which forma 
the most precious dowry of our daughters. 1 
do not conceive the song to be the most proper 
vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits : simpli- 
city, I believe, should be its prominent feature ; 
but, in some of our songs, the writers have con- 
founded simplicity with coa''jeness and vulga- 
rity ; although, between the one and the other, 
as Dr. Beattte well observes, there is as great a 
difference as between a plain suit of clothes and 
a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or pa- 
thetic complaint, is best suited to our artless 
melodies ; and more interesting indeed in all 
songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling de- 
scriptions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you eleven 
of the songs, for which it is my wish to substi 
tute others of your writing. I shall soon trans 
niit the rest, and, at the same time, a prospectu* 
of the whole collection : and you may believe 
we will receive any h nts that you are so kind 
as to give for improving the work, with tht 
greatest pleasure and thankfulness. 

1 remain. Dear Sir, tu» 



COftRESPONDENCE. 



^93 



No. IV. 
THE PO rr TO MR. THOMSON, 



THE L£A RIG. 



MY DEAR SJK, 

Let me tell you that you are too fastidious 
n your ideas of songs and ballads. I own thit 
/our criticisms are just ; the songs you specify 
m your list have all but one the faults you re- 
mark in them ; but who shall mend the matter? 
Who shall rise up and say — Go to, I will make 
a better ? For instance, on leading over The 
Lea-rig, I immediately set about trying my 
hand on it, and, after all, 1 could make nothing 
inor« of it than the following, which, Heaven 
knows, is poor enough : 

{Seep. 244.) 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air Namiie O, is just. It 
is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad io 
the English language. But let me remark to 
you, that, in the sentiment and style of our 
Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a 
something that one may call the Doric style and 
dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our 
native tonjjue and manners is particularly, nay 
peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon 
my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opi- 
nion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is 
yours, freely yours, to approve, or reject, as you 
please), that my ballad of Nannie O might per- 
haps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now 
don't let it enter into your head, that you are 
under any necessity of tdkinsf my verses. I have 
long ago made up my mind as to my own re- 
putation in the business of authorship ; and 
have nothing to be pleased or offended at, in 
your adoption or rejection of my verses. Thoujih 
you should i eject one half of what I give you, 
I shall be pleased with your adopting the other 
half, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assuluitv. 

In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will 
alter it, 

" Behind yon hills where JLugdt flowi." 

Girvan is the naii# of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza l)e8t, but Lugar is the most 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but 1 have just now 
an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free 
*i postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : 
•o, with my best compliments to honest Allan, 
Good be wi* ye, tec 

Friday nigtU. 



morn ng before my conveyance goes aWa^, I 
will give you Nannie O at lV;ngth. 

(See p. 213.) 

Your remarks on JEwe-bugfits, Marion<t grt 
just : still it has obtained a place among out 
more classical Scottish songs ; and what with 
many beauties in its composition, and more pre> 
judices in its favour, you will not find it easy 
to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking 
of going to the West Indies, I took the follow- 
ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, 
and has nothing of the merits of Ewe-bnghts , 
but it will fill up this page. You must know 
that ail my earlier love-songs were the breath- 
ings of ardent passion, and though it might have 
been easy in after-times to have given them a 
polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, 
and who perhaps alone Cared for them, would 
have defaced the legend of my heart, whicfc 
was so faithfully inscribed on tliem. Their un- 
couth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their 
race. 

( Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, p. 243.} 

Gala Water and Auld tiob Morris, I think, 
will most probably bfe the next subject of my 
musings. However, even on my verses, speak 
out your criticisms with equal frankness. My 
wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying 
bigot of opiniatrete, but cordially to join issu 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 



No. V. 



Saturday Morning. 
1 find I have still ar hour to spare tki» 



THE POET TO MR THOMSON. 

November 8th, 1792 
Ir you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs 
in your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty 
in the undertaking than you are aware of. 
There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our 
ail 8, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the 
emphasis, or what I would call the feature-n(>tes 
of the tune, that cramp the po. t, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difficulties. For in- 
stance, in the air, My wife's a wanton we* 
thing, if a few lines smooth and pretty can be 
adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The 
following were made extempore to it ; and 
though, on farther study, 1 might give you 
something more profound, yet it might not suit 
tlie light-horse gallop of the air so well as this 
random clink. 

{My wife's a winsome wee thing, p. 214.) 

I have just been looking over the CoiUsf 



594 



BURNS* WORKS. 



honny Dochter ; and if the following rhapsody, 
which I composed the other day, on a charming 

Ayrshire girl. Miss , as she passed through 

this place to England, will suit your taste bet- 
ter than the Collier Lassie, fall on and wel- 



( O saw ye bonnie Lesslie, p. 194.) 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, 
and deserve, a greater effort. However, they 
are all put into your hands, as clay into the 
hands of the potter, to make one vessel to he- 
aoui, and. another to dishonour. Farewell, &c. 



No. VI. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

H e hanks, and braes, and streams around, 
The castle o* Montgomery. ( See p. 203. 

MY DEAR SIR, Mth November, 1792. 

I AGREE with you that the song, Katharine 
Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried 
to mend it, but the awkward sound Ogie recur- 
ring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt 
at introducing sentiment into the piece. The 
'oregoing song pleases myself ; I think it is in 
aiy happiest manner ; you will see at first glance 
that it suits the air. The subject of the .«ong is 
one of the most interesting passages of my youth- 
ful days ; and, I own that I should be much 
flattered to see the verses set to an air which 
would insure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, tis 
the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that 
thiows a borrowed lustre over the merits of the 
composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob 
Morris. 1 have adopted the two first verses, 
and' am going on with the song on a new plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
iu my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ceremonie, 
Biake what use you choose of the productions. 
Adieu ! &^. 



No. VII. 



MR. THOMPSON TO THE POET. 

WEAR SIR, Edinburgh, Nov. 1792. 

I WAS just going to write to you, that on 
meeting with your Nannie I had fallen violent- 
}y in love with her. I thank you, therefore, for 
•ending the charming rustic to me, in the dress 
you wish her to appear before the public. She 
joes you great credit, and will soon be admitted 
^to the best company. 



I regret that your song for the Lta^rxg is 8< 
short ; the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleas 
ing ; so that, if the singer stops at the end o( 
two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is well 
possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial, and 
appropriate to our melodies, yet 1 shall be able 
to present a considerable number of the very 
Howers of English Song, well adapted to those 
me.oaiea, which in England at least will be the 
means of recommending them to still greater at- 
tention than they have procured there. Bu 
you will observe, my plan is, that every air shah 
in the first place have verses wholly by Scottish 
poets; and that those of English writei-s shal. 
follow as additional songs, for the choice of the 
singer. 

What you say of the Ewe-bughts is just ; 1 
admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All 
I requested was, that you would try your hand 
on some of the inferior stanzas, which are appa- 
rently no part of the original song ; but this I 
do not urge, because the song is of suffic'ent 
length though those inferior stanzas be omitted, 
as they will be by the singer of taste. You raus* 
not think I expect all the songs to be of sitperla- 
tive merit; that were an unreasonable expecta 
tion. I am sensible that no poet can sit down dog- 
gedly to pen verses, and succeed well at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your humorous and 
amoious rhapsody on Bonnie Lesslie ; it is a 
thousand times better than the Collier's Lassie, 
•' The deil he couMnas«aith thee," &c. is an ec- 
cmtric and happy thought. Do you not think, 
liowever, that the names of such old heroes as 
Alex.md. r. sound rather queer, unless in pom- 
p.u- or mere burlesque verse? Instead of the 
line '• And never made auither," I would hum- 
bly suggest, " And ne'er made sic anither ;' 
and I would fain have you substitute some other 
line for " Return to Caledonie," in the last 
verse, because 1 think this alteration of the or- 
thography, and of the sound of Caledonia, dis- 
figures the word, and renders it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song. My wife's a winsome wee 
thing, I think the first eight lines very good : 
but I do not admire the other eight, because four 
of them are a bare repetition of the first verse. 
I have been trying to spin a stanza, but could 
make nothing better than the follovving ; do yon 
mend it, or, as Yorick did with the love-letter, 
whip it up in your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing, 
My bonnie biythsome wee thing ; 
Sae lang*8 I hae my wee thing, 
ril think my lot divine. 
Tho* warld's care we share o*t. 
And may see meickle mair o*t, 
Wi' her 1*11 blythly bear it. 
And ne'er a word repine. 



You percei r^ my dear Sii I avail mvself o« 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



395 



die liberty whicL you condescend to allow me, 
by Jipeaking freely what I think. Be assured, 
It is not my disposition to pick cut the faults of 
Eny poem or picture I see ; my first and chief 
object ia to discover and be delighted with the 
oeauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine 
critically, and at leisure, what perhaps you have 
written in haste, I may happen to observe care- 
less lines, the re- perusal of which might lead 
you to improve them. The wren will often see 
what has been overlooked by the eagle. 

I remain yours faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary, are 
just come to hand : they breathe the genuine 
spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last for 
ever. Such verses united to such an air, with 
the delicate harmony of Pleyel superadded, might 
form a treat worthy of being presented to Apollo 
himself. I have heard the sad story of your 
Mary : you always seem inspired when you write 
of her 



No. Via 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, \st December, 1792. 
Your alterations of my Nannie O are per- 
fectly right. So are those of " My wife's a 
wanton wee thing." Your alteratiim of the 
second stanza is a positive improvemi ut. Now, 
my dear Sir, with the freedom whith i har.ic- 
terises our correspondence, I must not, ciimot 
alter " Bonnie Les>lie." You are riglit, die 
word " Alexander" makes the line a little un- 
couth, but I think the thought is pretty. Of 
Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it may be 
said, in the sublime language of scripture, that 
" he went forth conquering and to conquer." 

" For nature made her what nhe is, 
And never made anither," (such a person as 
she is. ) 

This is in my opinion more poetical than 
" Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is im- 
material ; Make it either way. " Caledonie," 
I agree with you, is not so good a word as could 
be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or 
four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot 
help it. In short, that species of stanza is the 
most difficult that 1 have ever tried. 

Th<9 "Lea-rig" is as follows. (Hire the 
poet gives the two first stanzas as before, p. 244, 
with the following in addition.) 

The hunter loe*3 the morning sun, 
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 

At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 
Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 



Gie me the ho^r o' gloamin grey, 
It mak's my heart sae cheery, O 

To meet thee on the lea- rig, 
My ain kind dearie, O. 

I am interrupted. Yoursj 



No. IX. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

(Anld Rob Morris, p. 192.) 
iDuncan Gray, p. 199.) 

m December, 1792. 
Thk foregoing I submit, my dear Sir, to youi 
better judgment. Acquit them or condemn 
them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan 
Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an 
air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous 
is its ruling feature. 



No. X. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON 

(Poortith Cauld, p. 222.) 
( GaUa Water, />. 201.) 

January 1793. 

Mant returns of the season to you, my dear 
Sir. How comes on your publication ? wil 
these two foregoing be of any service to you . 
1 should like to know what songs you print to 
each tune, besides the verses to whicli it is set. 
In short, I would wish to give you my opinion 
on all the poetry you publish. You know it 
is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade 
may suggest useful hints, that escape men o 
much superior parts and endowments in other 
things. 

If you meet with my dear and much valued 
C. greet him in my name, with the compliments 
of the season. 

Yours, &c 



No XI. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET, 

WITH ▲ POSTSCRIPT FROM THE HON. A. ERSKIVB 

Edinburgh, January 20th, 1793. 
You make me happy, my dear Sir, and thou* 
sands will be happy to see the cl armings songs 
you have sent me. Many merry returns of the 
season to you, and may you long continue among 
the sons and daughters of Caledonia, to deligh 
tbem, and to honour your^lf^ 



J 



S96 



BITRNS'S WORKS. 



The fojr last songs with whicn you favoured 
me, viz. Auld Rub Mo}-ris, Duncan Gray, 
Galla Water, and Cavld Kail, are admirable. 
Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour 
will endear him to every body. 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the 
aappy shepheidess in Galla Water, exhibit an 
excellent contrast ; they speak from genuine 
feelino, and powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which 1 had originally 
in view was limited, but I now resolve to in- 
clude every Scotch air and song worth sing- 
ing, leaving none behind but mere gleanings, 
to which the publishers of oimvo.gatherum are 
welcome. I would rather be the editor of a 
collection from which nothing could be taken 
away, than of one to which nothing could be 
added. We intend presenting the subscribers 
with two beautiful stroke engravings ; the one 
characteristic of the plaintive, and the other of 
the lively songs ; and I have Dr. Beattie's pro- 
mise of an essay upon the subject of our na- 
tional music, if his health will permit him to 
write it. As a number of our songs have doubt- 
less been called forth by particular events, or by 
the charms of peerless damsels, there must be 
many curious anecdotes relating to them. 

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I be- 
lieve, knew more of this than any body, for he 
joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste 
for poetry, besides being a man of the world, 
and possessing an enthusias.n for music beyond 
most of his contemporaries. He was quite plea- 
sed with this plan of mine, for I may say, it 
has been solely managed by me, and we had se- 
veral loug conversations ahoiit it, when it Wiw in 
embryo. If I couid simply mention the name 
of the heroine of each song, and the incident 
which occas'oned the verses, it would be grati- 
fying. Pray, will you send me any information 
of this sort, as well with regard to your own 
Bongs, as the old ones ? 

To all the fdvourite songs of the plaintive or 
pastoral kind, will Ite joined the delicate accom- 
paniments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of the co- 
mic or humorous class, I think accompaniments 
scarcely necessary , they aie chiefly fitted for 
the conviviality of the festive board, and a tune- 
ful voice, with a proper delivery of the words, 
renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to these I 
propose adding bass acconipauiments, because 
then thev are fitted either for singing, or for in- 
strumental performance, when there happens to 
be no singer. I mean to employ our right 
trusty frieod Mr Clarke to set the bass to th«se, 
which he assures me he will do, con amore, and 
with much greater attention than he ever be- 
stowed on any thing of the kind. But for this 
last class of airs, I will not attempt to find more 
than one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard Peter Pindar, has started ; 
I know not how many difficulties, about wri- i 
ting for the airs I sent to liim, because of the 
peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels ! 
bey impose on his flying Pegasus. I subjoin j 



for your pierusal the only one I have yet got 
from him, being for the fine air " Lord Gre- 
gory.'* The Scots verses printed with that air, 
are taken from the middle of an old ballad, call- 
ed. The Lass of Lnchroyan, which I do not 
admire. I have set down tlie air therefore as a 
creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs 
are replete with wit and humour ; might not 
the best of these be included in our volume of 
comic songs ? 



POSTSCRIPT, 

FROM THK HON. A. ERSKINE. 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to give 
me a perusal of your songs. Highland Mary is 
most enchantingly pathetic, and Duncan Gray 
possesses native genuine humour : " spak o' 
lowpin o'er a linn," is a line of itself that should 
make you immortal. I sometimes hear of you 
from our mutual friend C, who is a most ex- 
cellent fellow, and possesses, above all men I 
krtow, the charm of a most obliging disposition. 
You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a 
collection of your unpublished productions, reli- 
gious and amorous ; I know from experience 
how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any 
trusty person in Dumfries to write them over 
fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money ue 
asks for his trouble ; and I certainly shall not 
betray your confidence. 

I am your hearty admirer, 

ANDREW ERSKINE. 



No. XII. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Zeth January, 1793. 

I APPROVF, greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. 
Dr. Beattie's Essay will of itself be a treasure. 
On my partj I mean to draw up an appendix to 
the Doctor's E«say, containing my stock of an- 
ecdotes, &c. of our Scots songs. AU the latt 
Mr Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken 
down in the course of my acquaintance with 
him from his own mouth. I am such an en- 
thusiast, that in the course of my several pere- 
grinations through Scotland, I made a pilgri- 
mage to the individual spot from which every 
song took its rise, " Lochaber," and the " Braes 
of Ballenden," excepted. So far as the locality 
either from the title of the air, or the tenor of 
the song, could be ascertained, 1 have paid my 
devotions at the particular shrine of everf 
Scotch muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very 
raluable collection of Jacobite songs — but would 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



39" 



tt ^ve no offence ? In tht mean time, do not 
you thiuk that some of them, particularly " The 
Sovr'8 tail to Geordie," as an air, with other 
words, might be well worth a place in your 
collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, 
it would be proper to have one set of Scots 
words to every air, and that the set of words to 
which the notes ought to be set. There is a 
naivete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight inter- 
mixture of Scots words and phraseology, which 
is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I 
will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste), 
with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of 
•ur native music, than any English verses what- 
erer. 

The very name of Peter Pindar, is an acqui- 
•ition to your work. His " Gregory" is beau- 
tiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas 
in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your 
service. Not that I intend to enter the lists 
with Peter ; that would be presumption indeed. 
My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
has I thiuk more of the ballad simplicity in it. 



{Zord Gregory* p. 209.) 

My most respectful compliments to the ho- 
nourable gentleman who favoured me with a 
postscript in your last. He shall hear from me 
and receive his MSS. soon. 



No. XIII. 



'HE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

{Mary Morison^ p. 211.) 

MT DK>R SIR, 20th March, 1793. 

Thf song prefixed is one of my juvenile 
leave it in your hands. I do not 



works 



The song of Dr. Walcott on the same sul^ect U u 
flolk>wt : — 

Ah ope. Lord Gregory, thy door, 

A midnight wanderer sighs; 
Hard r\ish the rai:i.<, the temnests roar. 

And lightnings cicave the wies. 

Who comes with woe at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose Irve did once delight. 

My cot shall yield her room. 

Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn. 

That once was priz'd by thee : 
Think of the riii;.' by yonder bum 

Thou /jav'st to love and me. 

But should'st thou not poor Marian know, 

ril turn iny feet ami part; 
And think the storms that round me blow, 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcott to mention, 
that his song is the original. Mr. Bums saw it, liked 
H, *nd immediately wrote the other on the same sub- 
ject, which is derived from an old Scottish ballad of 
aneertaio origin. 



think it very remarkable, either for its merits, 
or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it 
so in my stinted powers), to be always original, 
entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c. of your song* ? 
I shall be out of all temper with you by and by 
I have always looked on myself as the prince of 
indolent correspondents, and valjed myself ac- 
cordingly ; and I will not. cunuot bear rivalship 
from you, nor any body else. 



No. XIV. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

( Wandering WiUie, p. 240. ) 

March, 1793. 
I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old " Through the 
lang Muir," be the best. 



No. XV. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

( Open the Door to Me, O, p. 219.; 

I do not know whether this sung be really 
mended. 



No. XVI. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
( True-hearted was he, p. 240.) 



m. XVII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinburgh, 2d April, 179S. 

I WILL not recognise the title you give your 
self, " the prince of indolent correspondents ;* 
but if the adjective were taken away I think 
the title would then fit you exactly. It give" 
me pleasure to find you can furnish anecdot. * 
with respect to mo^t of the songs : these wiij 
be a literary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, which 
I believe will be found nearly nimiplete. I have 
put down the first lines of all the English songs, 
which I propose givir 5 in addition to the Scotch 
verses. If any others iccur to you, better adapt- 
ed to the character of the airs pray mentipr 



S98 



BURNS* WORKS. 



tbem, when you favour me with j our strictures 
upon every thing else relating to the work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
songs, with his symphonies and Accompaniments 
added to them. I wish you were here, that I 
might serve up some of them to you with your 
own verses, by way of dessert after dinner. There 
is 80 much deligl tful fancy in the symphonies, 
and such a delicate simplicity in the accom- 
paniments : they are indeed beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several last 
productions of your muse : your Lord Gregory, 
in my estimation, is more interesting than 
^eter's, beautiful as his is ! Your Here Awa 
Villie must undeigo some alterations to suit 
ihe air. Mr. Erskine and I have been conning 
it over : he will suggest what is necessary to 
make th«m a fit match.* 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine 
taste you are no stranger to, is so well please>J 
both with the musical and poetical part of our 
work, that he has volunteered his assistance, 
and has already written four songs for it, which, 
by his own desiue, I send for your perusal. 



No. XVIII. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 



( The Soldier's Return, p. 236. ) 
{Meff o* the Mill. p. 21 



I.) 



No. XIX. 
THL POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

7th April, 1793. 

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. 
You cannot imagine how much this business of 
composing for your publication has added to my 
enjoyments. What with my early attachment 
to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making is now 
as completely my hobby-horse, as ever fortifica- 
tion was Uncle Tobv's; so 1*11 e'en canter it 
away till I come to the limit of my race, (God 
grant that I may take the right side of the win- 
ning-post !) and then cheerfully looking back 
on the honest folks with whom I have been hap- 
py, I shall say, or sing, " Sae merry as we a' 
hae been !" and raising my last looks to the whole 
human race, the last words of the voice of Coi- 
la shall be " Good night and joy be wi' you 
a* !" So much for my last words : now for a 
few present remarks, as they have occurred at 
random, on looking over your list. 

The first lines of The last time 1 came o*er 



* The gentleman alluded to was Mr. Andrew Ers- 
fcine. The poet a topted part of the alterations and 
noeded the rest. 



the moor, and several other lines in it, are beau- 
tiful : but in my opinion — pardon me, revered 
shade of Ramsay ! the song is unworthy of the 
divine air. I shall try to make, or mend. For 
ever. Fortune wilt thou prove, is a charming 
song ; but Logan burn and Logan braes, ar* 
sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try 
that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song 
may class among the English ones. 1 remem- 
ber the two last last Jines of a verse in some of 
the old songs of Logan water, (for 1 know a 
good many different ones) which I think pretty : 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. '* 

Mg Patie is a lover gag, is unequal. " Hii 
mind Is never muddy," is a muddy expression 
indeed. 

•' Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony." 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
your book. My song. Rigs of bar leg, to the 
same tune, does not altogether please me ; but it 
I can mend it, and thrash a few loose bentimenta 
out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. 
The lass o' Patie' s mill is one of Ramsay's 
best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in 
it, which my much-valued friend, Mr Erskine, 
will take into his critical consideration. In Sir 
J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes are two claims, 
one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other 
from Ayrshire, for the honour of this- song. 
The following anecdote, which 1 had from the 
present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
land, who had it of the late John Earl of Lou- 
don, I can on such authorities believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle 
with the then Earl, f^ither to Earl John ; and 
one forenoon, riding, or walking out tog-.ther, 
his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet roman- 
tic spot on Irvine water, still called " Patie'a 
Mill," where a bonnie lass was " tedding hay, 
bareheaded on the green." My Lord observed 
to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a 
song Ramsay took the hint, and lingering be- 
hind, he composed the first sketch ot t, which 
he produced at dinner. 

One day I heard Ilary say. Is a fine song^ 
but for consistency's sake alter the name « Ado- 
nis." Was there ever such banns published, ai 
a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Ma- 
ry "^ \ agree with you that my song, There\ 
nought but care on every hand, is much superi- 
or to Poortith could. The original song, Tha 
mill, mill O, though excelleBt, is, on account of 
delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like the title, and 
think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ; 
and let your chosen song, whick is very pretty, 
follow,- as an English set. The banks of the 
Dee is, you know, literally Langotee to slow 
time. The song is well enough, but has some 
false imagery ii it : for instance. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



3^9 



And sweet'iy tie nightingale sung from the 
ttee." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a 
ow bush, but never from a tree ; and in the 
Kcond place, there never was a nightingale seen 
or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the 
Sariks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic 
rural imas^ery is always comparatively Bat. If 
I could hit on another stanza equal to The small 
birds rejoice, &c. 1 do myself honestly avow 
that I think it a superior song. John Ander- 
ton my jo — the song to this tune in Johnson's 
Museum, is my composition, and I think it not 
my worst • If it suit you, take it and welcome. 
Your collection of sentimental and pathetic 
Bongs, is, in my opinion, very complete ; but not 
so your comiu ones. Where are Tullochg»rum, 
Lvmpa o' puddin, Ttbhie Fowler, and several 
others, which, in my humblr judgment, are well 
worthy of preservation ? There is also one sen- 
tirneiital song of mine in the Museum, which 
never was known out of the immediate neigh- 
bourhood, until I got it taken down from a 
country girl's singing. It is called Craigiehurn 
wood; and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is 
one (if our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite 
an enthusiast about it ; and I would take his 
taste in Scottish music against the taste of most 
Ronnoisst;urs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five 
in your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
Shepherds I have lost my love, is to me a hea- 
vecly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a 
good while ago, which I think 

. . . but in its original state is not quite a 
lady's song I enclose an altered, not amend- 
ed copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to 
it, and let the Ir^sh verses follow. 

Mr. Erskine'd songs are all pretty, but bis 
Lone vale is di\ ine. Yours, &c. 

Let Die know just how you like these random 
hinti. 



think we ought not to displace or alter vt, 
cept the last stanca.* 



No. XX. 



MIL THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 
I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that ballad- 
making continues to be your hobby-horse. 
Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I 
nope you will an'ble it away for many a year, 
and " witch the world with your horseman- 
ehip." 

I know there are a good many livdy songs 

of merit that I have not put down in the list 

lent you ; but I have them all in my eye. My 

Patie »■« a lover gay, though a little unequal, is 

uatu-al an J very pleasing song, and I humbly 



No. XXI. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 179S. 

I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this momerit. 1 
shall answer it and your former letter, in my 
desultory way of saying whatever comes upper- 
most. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting 
at the beginning what fiddlers call a starting- 
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

'« There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow bra<)S, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather * 

You may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," &e. 

My song. Here awa, there awa, as amended 
by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- 
turn you. 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing in which it is in my opinion repre 
I heusible. You know I ought to know some- 
i thing of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, 
I and point, you are a complete judge ; but there 
is a quality more necessary than either, in a 
song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, 
I mean simplicity : now, if I mistake not, this 
last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to 
the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, nas not been 
always equally happy in his pieces .- still I can- 
not approve of taking such liberties with an 
author as Mr, W. propo-es doing with The last 
time I came o'er the Moor. Let a poet, if he 
chooses, take up the idea of another, and work 
it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue 
is now mute for ever, in the dark and nari-ow 
house — by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege ! I 
grant that Mr. W's version is an improvement ; 
but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much j 
let him mend the song, as the Highlander 
mended his gun : — he gave it a new stock, and 
a new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving out im- 
proper stanzas, where that can be done without 
8|)oiling the whole. One stanaa in The lasi 
o' Patie' s mill, must be left out: the song will 
be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we 



• The original .etter from Mr. Thomson oontains 
many oteervations on the Scottish songs, and on the 
manner of adapting the words to the music, which, a 
his desire, are suppressed. The subsequent letter Ob 
Mr. Bums refers to severa. of these observation*. 



BURiSS' WOilKS. 



can take the ssme liberty witli Com rift are 
hoHnie. Perhaps it might want the last stansa, 
and be the bette- for it. Cauld kail in jtber- 
deen, you must leave with me yet a while. I 
have vowed to have a song to that air, on the 
lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses, Poortith cauld and restless love. At 
any rate, my other song, Green grow the rash- 
es, will never suit. That song is current in 
Scotland under the old title, and to the merry 
old tune of that name ; which of course would 
mar the progress of your song to celebrity. 
Your book will be the standard of Scots songs 
for the future : let this idea ever keep your 
judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit Bonnie Dundee, I send you 
also a ballad to the Mill, mill O. 

The last time I came o^er the moor, I would 
fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let 
Ramsay's be the English set. You shall hear 
from me soon. When you go to London on 
this business, can you come by Dumfries ? I 
have still several MS. Scots airs by me which 
I have picked up, mostly from jhe singing of 
country lasses. They please me vastly ; but 
your learned luc/s would perhaps be displeased 
with the very feature for which I like them. 
I call them sifnple ; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air called Jackie 
Hume's lament 9 I have a song of consider- 
able merit to that air. I'll enclose you both the 
Bong and tune, at I had them ready to send to 
Johnson's Musetim. I send you likewise, to 
me, a beautiful little air, wl ich I had taken 
^wn from viva voce. 

Adieu ! 



No. XXIL 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MT DEAR SIR, April, 1793. 

I HAD scarcely put my last letter into the 
post-office, when I took up the subject of The 
last time I came o'er the moor, and ere I slept 
drew the outlines of the foregoing. How far 1 
hare succeeded, I leave on this, as on every 
other occa>ion, to you to decide. I own my 
vanity is flattered, when you give my songs a 
place in your elegant and superb work ; but to 
be of service to the work is my first wish. As 
I ha/e often told you, I do not in a single in- 
stance wish you, out of compliment to me, to 
insert any thing of mine. One hint let me give 
you — whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not al- 
i^r one iota of the original Scottish airs ; 1 mean, 
in the song department ; but let our national 
music preserve its native features. They are, 

own, frequently wild and irreducible to the 
more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- 
city, perhaps, depends a great part of t) «ir ef 
feot 



No. XXIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 

Edinburgh, 26th April, 179^ 
I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir, for ytitn 
last two letters, and the songs which acco»,jia- 
nicd them. I am always both instructed \n,. 
entertained by your observationd ; and the frsnk 
ness w.th which you speak out your mind, is t: 
me highly agreeable. It is very possible I may 
not have the true idea of simplicity in composi 
tion. I confess there are »tf"cral songs of Allac 
Ramsay's, for example, that I think silly enough 
which another person, more conversant than 
have been with country people, would perhaps 
cull simple and natural. But the lowest scenes 
of simple nature will not please generally, if co- 
pied precisely as they are. The poet, like the 
painter, must select what will foi m an agreeable 
as well as a natural picture. On this subject it 
were easy to enlarge ; but at present suffice it 
to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly under- 
stood, as a most essential quality in composition, 
and the ground-work of beauty in all the arts. 
•I will gladly appropriate your most interesting 
new ballad, When wild war's deadly blast, &c. 
to the Mdl, mill, O, as well as the two other 
songs to their respective airs ; but the third and 
fourth line of the first verse must undergo some 
little alteration in order to suit the music. Pleyel 
does not alter a single note of the songs. That 
would be absurd indeed ! With the airs wbieh 
he introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to 
take such liberties as he pleases ; but that has 
nothing to do with the songs. 



P. S.— I wish you would do as you propose* 
with your Rigs o' barley. If the loose senti« 
meats are thrashed out of it, I will find an sk 
for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. 



No. XXIV. 

THE POET TO MR, THOMSON. 

June, 1793 
When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend 
of mme, in whom I am much interested, hat 
fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
will easily allow that it might unhinge me for 
dumg any good among bal.ads. My own loss, 
as to pecuniary matters, is trifling ; but the to- 
tal ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed. 
Pardon my seeming inattention to your last 
commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill, 
mill, O. What you think a defect I esteem a» 
a positive beauty : so you see how doctors dif- 
fer. I shaU now, with as much alacrity av ** 
can ncuster, go on with your commands. 



Yon Iciiow Fraser, the bautbojr player in 
Sdinl)urgb — he is here instructing a band of 
ma*!:: for a fencible corps quartered in this 
countrj-. Among many of his airs that please 
me. there is one well known as a reel by the 
name of The Quaker's Wife ; and which I re- 
meml)er a grand aunt of mine used to sing, by 
the name of Liggeram cosit, my bonny xvee lass, 
Mr. Fraser plays it slow, and with an expres- 
sion that quite charms me. 1 became such an 
enthusiast about it, that I made a song for it, 
which I here subjoin ; and enclose Eraser's set 
of the tune. If they hit your fanv^, they are 
at youi service ; if not, return me the tune, 
and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I 
tiink the song is not in my worst manner. 

{Blythe hae I been on yon Hill, p. 193.) 

I ■hoald wish to hear how this pleases you. 



No. XXV. 



THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

25th. June, 1793. 
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bo- 
•om ready to burst with indignation on reading 
ul those mighty villains who divide kingdom 
against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay na- 
tions waste out of the wantonness of ambition, 
or often from still more ignoble passions ? In a 
mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the air 
of Logan water ; and it occurred to me that 
its queiulous melody probably had its origin 
from the plaintive indignation of some swelling 
•uflfering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of 
some pubfic destroyer ; and overwhelmed with 
private distress, the consequence of a country's 
ruin. If I have done any thing at all like ju^ 
»ice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
posed in three quarters of an hour's meditation 
in my elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 

(Logan Braes, p. 209. ) 

Do you know the following beautiful little 
fragment in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots 
Sonera? 

Tune — " Hughle Graham." 

• O gin my love were yon red rose 

** That grows upon the caatle wa', 
♦^ And I mysel' a drap o* dew, 
" Into ber bonnie breast to fa' ! 



Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
** I'd feast on l)eauty a' the night ; 
Seal'd on her silk-Haft fauids to rest, 
*• Till flev'd Awa by Phuebus' >if[bt." 



This thought is inexpressibly b«aitiAil; and 
quite, so far as I know, original. It is to« 
short for a soag, else I would forswear you al- 
together, unless you gave it i place. I hav» 
often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. 
After balancing myself for a musing five mi- 
nutes on the hind-legs of my elbow chair, I 
pro<luced the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, 
I frankly confess ; but if worthy of insertion at 
all, they might be first in place ; as every poet, 
who knows any thing of his trade, will husband 
his best thoughts for a concluding stroke. 

O were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And 1 a bird to shelter there. 

When wearied on my little wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing. 

When youthfu' May its bloom renew*d* 



xNo. XXVI. 

MR. THOMSON "I'O THE POET, 

Monday, \st Jtily, 1793 
I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, that any 
thing should happen to unhinge you. The times 
are terribly out of tune, and when harmony will 
be restored, heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, will 
be despatched to you along with this. Let me 
be favoured with your opinion of it frankly and 
freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you 
have written for the Quaker s wife ; it is qui'e 
enchanting. Pray, will you return the li»t of 
songs, with such airs added to it as you think 
ought to be included. \ The business now rests 
entirely on myself, the gentleman who original^ 
ly agreed to join the speculation having re- 
quested to be off. No matter ; a loser I cannot 
be. The superior excellence of the work wiL 
create a general demand for it, as soon as it is 
properly known. And were the sale even slowe 
than it promises to be, I should be some- 
what compensated for my labour, by the plea- 
sure I shdil receive from the music. I cannot 
express how much 1 am obliged to you for the 
exquisite new songs you are sending me j but 
thanks, my friend, are a poor return for what 
you have done : as I shall be benefited by ttie 
publication, you must suffer me to enclose « 
small mark of my gratitude*, and to repeat it 
afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not 
return it, for, by heaven, if you do, our corres^ 
pondence is at an end : and though this would 
l>e no loss to you, it would mar the publication. 



*02 



BURNS' WORKS. 



which, under your auspices, cannol fail to be re- 
apectable and interesting. 



Wednesday Morning. 
I thank yea for your delicate additional ver- 
ses to the old fragment, and for your excellent 
song to Logan water : Thomson's truly elegant 
one will follow for the English singer. Your 
apostrophe to statesmen is admirable, but I am 
not sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed 
gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks 
it. 



No. XXVII. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Ml DEAR SIR, July 2, 1793. 

I HAVE just finished the follovving ballad, and 
as i do think it in my best style, I send it you. 
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. 
Burns' wood-note wild^ is very fond of it ; and 
has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
youn^ ladies of the first fashion here. If you 
do not like the air enough to give it a place in 
your collection, please return it. Tlie song you 
may keep, as I remember it. 



(Bonnie Jean, p. 194-. ) 

I have some thoughts of inserting in your in- 
dex, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, 
the themes of my songs. I do not mean the 
name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as in- 
genuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. 
daughter to Mr. M. of D., one of your subscri- 
bers. I have not painted her in the rank which 
she holds in life, but in the dress and character 
of a cottager. 



No. XXVIII. 

THE POET TO MR THOMSON. 

July, 1793. 
I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly 
hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- 
grades me in my own eyes. However, to return 
it would savour of affectation ; but as to any 
niore tratfic of that debtor and creditor kind, I 
ewear by that Honour which crowns the up- 
right statue of Robert Burns' Integrity — 
on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn 
the by-past transaction, and from that moment 
sommence entire stranger to you ! Bu a^ s' cha- 
ntctu* for generosity of frmtiment and indepen- 



dence of mind will, 1 trust, long outlive any of 
his wants, which the cold unfeeling :)re caa 
supply : at least, I will take care that such k 
character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical w«rk, 
such elegance and correctness Your preface, 
too, is admirably written ; only, your partiality 
to me has made you say too much ; however, it 
will bind me down to double every effort in the 
future progress of the work The following are 
a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent 
me. I never copy what I write to you, so I 
may be often tautological, or perhaps contradic- 
tory. 

The powers of the forest is charming as % 
poem; and should be, and must be, set to the 
notes ; but, though out of your rule, the thre« 
stanzas, beginning, 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immorta- 
lize the author of them, who is an old lady ol 
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn : I for- 
get of what place ; but from Roxburghshire. 
What a charming apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting. 
Why, why torment us — poor sons of a day f** 

The old ballad, I wish I were where Helen lies^ 
IS silly, to contemptiiiility *. My alteration of it, 
in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinker- 
ton, in his, what he calls, Anrier t Ballads 
(many of tViem notorious, though beautiful 
enough forgeries) has the best set. ' t is full of 
his own interpolations — but no matt' r. 

In my next, I will suggest to your considera. 
tion, a few songs which may have t>.scaped your 
hurried notice. In the meantime, Jlow me to 
congratulate you now, as a brother oi the quill. 
You have committed your character and fame; 
which will now be tried, for ages to come, by 
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters 
of Taste — all whom poesy can please, or music 
charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some prefett- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by 
the spirit to foretel and affirm, that your greai^ 
grandchild will hold up your volumes, and say, 
with honest pride, " This so much admired se- 
lection was the work of my ancestor." 



• There is a copy of this ballad gi^en in the account 
of the parish of Kii•kpatrick-Flemi^ i, (nhich containi 
the tomb of Fair Helen Irvine,) ip He s*ati!>t:r» of Si: 
John Sinclair, Vol XlII p. 273, U vhich this« 
ter is certainly not api>licable. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



403 



No. XXIX. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

DKAR SIR, Edinburgh, \st August, 1793. j 

I HAP the pleasure of receiving your last two t 
jetters, and am happy to find you are quite , 
pleased with the appearance of the first book. 
When you come to hear the sonijs sung and ac- 
companied, you will be charmed with them. 

The honnie brucket Lassie, certainly deserves 
better verses, and I hope you will match her. 
Cauld kail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae night, 
and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse's 
leisure : these are peculiarly worthy of her 
ihoice gifts . besides, you'll notice that ui airs 
of this sort, the singer can always do greater 
justice to the poet, than in the slowei- airs of 
The Bush aboon Traqnair, Lord Gregory, 
and the like ; for in the manner the latter are 
frequently sung, you must be contented with 
the sound, without the sense. Indeed both 
the airs and words »re disguised by the veiy 
slow, languid, psalm-singing style in which 
they are too often performed : they lose anima- 
tion and expression altogether, and instead of 
speaking to the mind, or touching the heart, 
they cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawn- 
ing ! 

Your ballad, There was a lass and she was 
fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall undoubt- 
edly grace my collection. 



No. XXX, 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MT TEAR THOMSON, AuOUStf 1793. 

I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke, who 
it present is studying the music of the spheres 
at mv elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks 
18 rather out of tune ; so until he rectify that 
matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial aff lirs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, 
tad if more are wanted, he says you shall have 



I will. The other passage you object to does 
not appear in the same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and 
you will probably think, with little success; 
but it is »uch a cursed, cramp, out of the Wiy 
measure, that I despair of doing any thing bet- 
ter to it. 



CoBfound your long stain ! 

S. CLARKE. 



No. XXXI. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 
Your objection, my dear sir, to the passages 
my song of Logan Water, is right in one in- 
but it is difficult to mend it : If I can 



{Phillis the fair, p. 222.) 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after 
all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I 
always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I 
meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits 
you to insert it, I shall he pleased, as the hero- 
ine is a favourite of mine : if not, I shall also 
be pleased ; because I wish, and will be glad, 
to see you act decidedly on the business. *Tis 
a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor 
which you owe yourself. 



No. XXXII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY GOOD SIR, August, 1793. 

I CONSIDER it one of the most agreeable cir- 
cumstances attending this publication of mine, 
that it has procured me so many of your much 
valued epistles. Piay make my acknowledg- 
ments to St. Stephen for the tunes ; tell him I 
admit the justness of his complaint on my stair- 
case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to your 
jeu d'espnt ,- which I peruseil more than once, 
without discovering exactly whether your discus- 
sion was music, astronomy, or politics ; though 
a sagacious friend, acquainted with the convivial 
habits of the poet and the musician, offered me 
a bet of two to one, you were just drowning 
care together ; that an empty bowl was the 
only thing that would deeply affect you, and the 
only matter you could then study how to re- 
me<ly ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair 
a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with 
an English suit for a change, and you are well 
matched together. Robin's air is excellent, 
though he certainly has an out of the way mea- 
sure as ever poor Parnassian wight was plagued 
with. I wish you would invoke the muse for a 
sint^le elegant stanza to be substituted for the 
concluding objectionable verses of Dwn the 
burn Davie, so that this most exquisite song 
may no longer be excluded from good company, 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
firom your John Anderson my Jo, which I anc 
to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the hu- 
morous class of songs ; you will be quite charm- 
ed with it, I promise you. The old couple are 
seated by the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great 



404 



BURNS* WORKS. 



good humour, is dapping John's shoulders, 
while he smiles and looks at her with such glee, 
Bs to show that he fully recollects the pleasant 
Jays and nights wh?n they were Jirst acquent. 
The drawing would do honour to the pencil of 
Teniers. 



No. XXXIII. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

August t 1793. 
That crinkum-crankum tune, Robin Adair, 
-as run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill 
in my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this 
morning's walk, one essay more. You, my 
dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate part of 
our worthy friend C. *8 story, which happened 
about three years ago. That struck my fancy, 
and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as 
follows. 



( Had I a cave, p. 203.) 

By the way, I have met with a musical High- 
lander, in Breadalbane'a fencibles, which are 
quartered heie, who assures me that he well 
remembers his mother's singing Gaelic songs to 
both Robin Adair anl Gramachree. They 
certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish 
taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- 
ness ; so it could not be any intercourse with 
Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what 
I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wander- 
ing minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go 
frequently errant through the wilds both of 
Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite airs 
might be common to both. — A case in point — 
Th^r have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish 
air, as they say, called Caun du delish. The 
fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great while 
ago, you will find the same air, called a High- 
land one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its 
name there, I think, is Oran Gaoil, and a 
fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Bmsv. 
Gaelic parson, about these matters. 



No. XXXIV. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

HY DEAR SIR, August, 1793. 

Z,et Vie in this ae night, I will recopsider. 
I am glad you are pleased with nay song, Had 
I a cave, &c. as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a vo- 
iUine of the Museum in my hand ; vhen, turn- 
ing up Allan Water, " What numbers shall 



the muse repeat," &6 vs the words appeared to 
me rather unworthy of so fine an air ; and re- 
collecting that it is on your list, I sat and raved 
under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote 
out one to suit the measure. I may be wrong j 
but I think it not in my worst style. Yoo 
roust know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, where 
the modern song first appeared, the ancient 
name of the tune, Allan says, is Allan Watet, 
or, Ml/ love Annie's very honnie. Thi« 
last has certainly been a line of the origins, 
song ; so I took up the idea, and, as you will 
see, have introduced the line in its piace, which 
I presume it formerly occupied ; though I liko- 
wise give you a chousing line, if it should not 
hit t' e cut of your fancy. 

{Ry Allan streams I chanced to rove. 
While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi, p. !90. ) 

Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should 
you think so too, (not else) you can set the 
music to it, and let the other follow as English 
verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I main 
more verses ir. it than in all the year else. 
God bless yoa! 



No. XXXV. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 
Is Whistle and III come to you, my lad, 
one of your airs ? I admire it much j and yes- 
terday 1 set the following verses to it. Urbani, 
whom 1 met with here, begged them of me, as 
he admires the air much ; but as I understand 
that he looks with rather an evil eye on your 
work, 1 did not choose to comply. However, 
if the song does not suit your taste, I may pof?- 
sibly send it him. The set of the air which 
I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum. 



( O whistle and Til eonte to yo«, my lad, 
p. 242.) 

Another favourite air of mine is, The muckin 
o' Geordie's byre. When sung slow, with ex- 
pression, I have wished that it had lad bett»:r 
poetry : that I have endeavoured to supply, ai 
follows : — 

{Phillis the Fair, p. S22.) 

Mr. Cla'-ke begs you to give Miss PhilHs a 
corner in your book, as she is a particular flanne 
of his. She is a Miss P. M., sister to bonnie 
Jean. They are both pupils of his. You shall 
hear from me, the very first grist I get froos 
my rhyming mill. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 4C; 

No. XXXVI. No. XXXVIII. 



THE S\ME TO THE SAME. 

Augtist, 1793. 
That tune, Cauld Kail, is such a favourite 
of yours, thai I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloaniin-shot at the nuises ; • when the 
muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or 
rather my old inspiring dearest nymph 0)ila, 
whispered me the following. I have two rea- 
sons for thinking that it was my e.irly, sweet, 
simple inspirer that was hy my eUinw, " smooth 
gilding without step," and pouring thir Mnig on 
my glowing fancy. In the first plac«, since I 
left Coila's native haunts, not a fra^^le^t of a 
poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by 
catching inspiration from her ; so I more than 
euspect that she has followed me hither, or at 
least makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
last stanza of this song I send you in the very 
words that Coila taught me many years ago, 
and which I set to an old Scots reel in John- 
ton's Museum. 

( Come let me take thee to my breast, p. 197.) 

If you think the above will suit your idea of 
«rour favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
The last time I came o\r the Moor, I cannot 
meddle with,^ as to mending it.: and the musi- 
cal world have l)een so long accustomed to Ram- 
•ay's words, that a different song, though posi- 
tively superior, would not be so well received. 
I aa not fond of choruses to songa, so 1 ha?« 
BO*^ «ade one fur the foregoiog. 



No. xxxvn. 



THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
(^Dainty Davie, p. 198.) 

August, 1793. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, 
« to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's 
•et of it in the Mus«um. 

N. B. In the lVIu»eum they have drawled oot 
the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is 

nonsense. Four lines of song, and four 

of chorus, is the way. 



• Gioamin— twilight, properly from glonmingc 
" :h ought to be atiopte 

h fluamm-«rt7'., a twilighl interview 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, \st Sept. 1793. 

Since writing you last, I have received hah 
a dozen songs, with which I am delighted beyond 
expression. The humour and fancy of W/itatU 
and VU come to you, my lad. will rtnder it 
nearly as great a favourite as Duncan Gray. 
Come let me take thee to my breast, Adown 
winding Nith, and By Allan stream, &fc. are 
full of imagination and feeling, and sweetly suit 
the airs for which they are intended. Had I 
a cave on some wild distant shore, is a strik- 
ing and affecting composition. Our friend, to 
whose story it refers, read it with a swelling 
heart, I assure you. The union we are now 
forming, 1 think, can never ,be bioken ; tliese 
songs of yours will descend with the music to 
the latest posterity, and will be fondly cherished 
so long as genius, taste, and sensibility exist in 
our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious, I think 
it right to enclose a list of all the favours I have 
to ask of her, no fewer than twenty and three ! 
I have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many 
as it is probable he will attend to : most of the 
remaining airs would puzzle the English poet 
not a little ; they are of that peculiar measure 
and rhythm, that they must be familiar to him 
who writes for them. 



jeajtiful |x)etical word whic 
Eiiglasd ' ' 



adopted in 



No. XXXIX. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, thai any 
exertion in my power is heartily at your ser- 
vice. But one thing I must hint to you ; the 
very name of Peter Pindar is of great service 
to your publication, so get a verse from him 
now and then ; though I have no objection, as 
well as I can, to bear the burden of the busi- 
ness. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, un- 
taught and untutored by art. For this reason, 
many musical compositions, particularly where 
much of the merit lies in counterpoint; how- 
ever they may transport and ravish the eais of 
you connisseurs, affect my simple lug no other- 
wise than merely as melodious din. On the 
other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted 
with many little melodies, which the learned 
musician despises as silly an<l insipid. I do not 
know whether the old air Hey tuttie taitie 
may rank among this number ; but well I know 
that, with Fraser's liautboy, it has often filled 
0jy eyes with tears. There ii a tradition, which 
1 have met with in many places of Scotland, 
dut it waa Robert Bruce** march at the Uittl«> 



406 



BURNS' WORKS. 



of Bannnckburn. This thought, in my solitary 
wanderings, warmed me to a pitch )f enthu- 
siasm on the theme of Liberty and Indepen- 
dence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish 
ode, fitted to the air that one might suppose to 
be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his he- 
roic followers on that eventful morning 



{Scots tohahae wV Wallace Ued, p. 195.) 

So may God ever defend the cause of Truth 
and Liberty, as he did that day ! — Amen. 

P. S. — I showed the air to Urhani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of 
some other stru|fgies of the same nature, not 
quite so ancient, roused my rbyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will 
find in the Museum ; though I am afraid that 
the air is not what will entitle it to a place in 
your elegant selectioa 



No. XL. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Sept. 1793. 

I DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will begin 
to think 111) correspondence is persecution. No 
matter, 1 can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby- 
horse ; which, though otherwise a simple sort 
of harmless, idiotical beast enough, has yet this 
blessed headstrong property, that when once it 
has fairly made oif with a hapless wight, it gets 
so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle- 
gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run 
poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be- 
yond any useful point or post in the common 
race of man. 

The following song I have composed for 
Oran-gaoil, the Highland air that, you tell me 
in your last, you have resolved to give a place 
to in your book. I have this moment finished 
l\ e song ; so you have it glowing from the mint. 
li it 6)ut you, well ! if not, 'tis also well ! 



Behold the hour the boat arrives, p. 193.) 



No. XLL 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinhunjh, 5th Sept. 1793. 
I ■KUKVX it is generally allowed that the^, 



greatest modesty is the sure attendant of tbt 
greatest merit. While you are sending me versef 
that even Shakspeare might be proud to own 
you tipeak of them as if they were ordinary pro 
ductibns ! Your heroic ode is to me the noblest 
composition of the kind in the Scottish Ian. 
guage. I happened to dine yesterday with a 
party of your friends, to whom I read it. They 
were all charmed with it, entreated me to find 
out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea 
of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest 
or grandeur as Hei/ tuttie taitie. Assuredly 
your partiality for this tune must arise from th« 
ideas associated in your mind by the traditiea 
concerning it, for I never heard any person,— 
and I have conversed again and again with the 
greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs, — I say I 
never heard any one speak of it as worthy of 
notice. 

I have been running over the whole hundred 
airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and 1 
think Lewie Gordon is most happily adapted 
to your ode ; at least with a very slight varia- 
tion of the fourth line, which I shall presently 
submit to you. There is in Lewie Gordon 
more of the grand than the plaintive, particu- 
larly when it is sung with a degree oi spirit, 
which your words would oblige the singer to 
give it. I would have no scruple about substi- 
tuting your ode in the room of Lewie Gordotif 
which has neither the interest, the grandeur, 
nor the poetry that characterise your verses. 
Now, the variation I have to suggest upon th« 
!ast line of each verse, the only line too short 
for the air, is as follows : — 

Verse \st. Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains and slaverie. 

Sd, Let him, let him turn and flie. 

4M, Let Kim bravely follow me. 

bth, But they shall, they shall be free. 

6th, Let us, let us do, or die ! 

If you connect each line with its own verse, I 
do n t think you will find that either the senti 
inent or the expression loses any of its energy 
The (inly line which I dislike in the whole Ot 
the song is, " Welcome to your gory bed,* 
Would not another word be preferable to wel' 
come ? In your next I will expect to be in 
formed whether you agreft to what I have pro- 
posed. These little alterations I submit witfe 
the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made Sin 
Oran-gaoil will insure celebrity to tbe air. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



10*? 



Na XLn. 
THE lOET TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

1 HAVE received your list, my dear Sir, and 
6ere go inj observations on it.* 

Dovm the burn Davie. I have this, mo- 
naeat tried an alteration, leaving out the last 
half of the third stanza, and the first half of the 
ast tttanza, thus : — 

A% down the burn they took their way, 

And thro* the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we returu, 
Sic pleasure to renew ?" 

Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 
And aye shall follow you."f 

I 

Thro' the wood laddie — I am decidedly of| 
opiniou, that both in this, and There'll never be 
peace till Jamie comes hnme, the second or high 
part of the tune being a repetition of the first 
part an octave higher, is only for instrumental 
music, and would be much better omitted in 
singing. 

Cowden-knowes. Remember in your index 
that the sonfr in cure English to this tune, be- 
ginning 

'* When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 

19 the production of Crawford : Robert was his 
Christian name. 

Laddie lie near me., must lie by me for some 
time. I do not know the air ; and until I am 
complete master of a tune, in my own singing, 
(such as it is), 1 can never compose for it. 
My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment 
correspondent to my idea of the musical expres- 
sion ; then choose my theme ; begin one stan- 
za ; when that is composed, wbic-h is generally 
the most difficult part of the husiness, 1 walk 
out, sit down, and then look out for objects in 
nature around me, that are in unison or har- 
mony with the coijitations ol my fancy, and 
tvorkings of my bo>-oni ; humming every now 
and then rhe air, v\ itii the vet^es I have fra- 
med. When I feel n.y muse beginning to jade, 
I retire to the solitary fiieside of my study, and 
there commit my tffii>ions to paper ; ^wmgiug 
at intervals on the hiiul leg> ol my elbow-chair, 
by way of c;illing fi.i ih niy «iwn critical stric- 
tures as m) [.-en uoe> on. Seriously, this, at 
home, is almuot iiiv.ii i.ihly my way. 

What rur>e<l egotism I 



• Mr. Thomwjh's \\U of songs for his publication. 
In h<s remarks, che banl proceeds in order, and goes 
t>.Tou(;h the whole; but on many of them he merely 
Bgnifies his approbation. All his remarks of any im- 
pertanee are presented to the reader. 

\ This alu-ration .Mr Thoms'in has adopted, (oral 
lea-st intemtel toado|«i), instead of the last stanza of 
the origitial long, w^ ich u ob> ^tioiiable m point of 
deiiotcY' 



Gill Morice I am for leaving out. I is a 
plaguey length ; the air itself is never sung ^ 
and its place can well be supplied by one or two 
songs for fint airs that are not in your list. For 
instance, Craigieburn-wood and Roy's Wife, 
The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty ; 
and the last has high merit, as well as great ce. 
lebrity. I have the original words of a song 
for the last air, in the hand-writing of the iady 
who composed it ; and they are superior to any 
edition of the song whica the public has yet 
seen. 

Highland Laddie. The old set will please a 
mere Scotch car best : and the new an Ital- 
ianized one. There is a third, and what Os- 
wald calls the old Highland Laddie, which 
pleases me more than either of them. It is 
sometimes called Gingian Johnnie ; it being 
the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that 
name. You will find it in the Museum^, / hae 
been at Crookie -den, &c. I would advise you, 
in this musical quandary, to offei up your pray- 
ers to the muses for inspiring direction ; and in 
the meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow 
a libation to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt 
but you will hit on a judicious choice. Pro- 
batum est. 

Auld Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave 
out, and put in its place, The Quaker's wife. 

Hiythe hue I been o'er the hill, is one of the 
finest songs ever I made in my life ; and besides, 
is composed on a young lady, positively the 
most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As 
I purpose giving you the names and designa- 
tions of all my heroines, to appear in some fu- 
ture edition of your work, perhaps half a cen- 
tury hence, you must certainly include the bon- 
niest /ass in «' the warld in jour collection. 

Daintie Davie, I have heard *ung, nineteen 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine timee 
and always with the chorus to the low part ol 
the tune ; and nothing has surprised nie so much 
as your opinion on this subject. If it will not 
suit, as I proposed, we will lay two of the stan ■ 
zas together, and then make the chorus follow. 

Fee him father — I enclose you Fraser's set 
of this tune when he plays it slow ; in fact., 
he makes it the language of despaij'. I shall 
here give you two stanzas in that style ; merely 
to try if it will be any improvement. Were it 
possible, in singing, to give it half the i-atho? 
which Fraser i;ives it in playing, it would make 
an admirable pathetic song. I do not give these 
verses for any merit they have. I composed 
them at the time in which Patie Allan's mi' 
ther died, that was about the buck o' midnight ; 
and by the leeside of a bowl of punch, wkicb 
had overset every mortal in company, excep 
the hautbois and the muse. 



( Thou haat left me ever Jamie, p. 239.) 

Jockie and Jenny I would discard, and in 
its place woujd put There's nae luck about 



i08 



he house, woich has a very pheasant air ; anfl 
which is positively the finest love-ballad in that 
style in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other 
.anguage. When she cam ben she bobbet, as an 
air, is more beautiful than either, and in the an- 
dante way, would unite with a charming senti- 
mental ballad. 

Saw ye mj/ father, is one of my greatest fa- 
vourites. The evening before last, I wandered 
out, and began a tender song ; in what I think 
is its native style. I must premise, that the 
old way, and the way to give most effect, is to 
have no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, 
but to ^urst at once into the pathos. Every 
countrj girl sings — Saw ye my father, Sfc. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should 
like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of 
it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dia- 
ect, but it may be easily turned into correct 
tSnglish.— (p. 2i2.) 



Tndlln* hame. Urbani mentioned an idea 
of his, which has long been mine ; that this air 
is highly susceptible of pathos ; accordingly, 
vou will soon hear him, at your concert, try it 
to a song of mine in the Museum, Ye banks 
and braes o' bonnie Doon. — One song more 
and I have done : Auld In ng syve. The air 
is but mediocre ; but the following song, the 
Old 8on>; of the olden times, and which has 
niiver been in print, nor even in manuscript, un- 
til I took it down from an old man's singing, is 
euough to recommend any ait. 



No. XLrfl. 

THE POET TO MR. THO.'VrSOlS 

September, 1793. 
I AM happ , my dear sir, that my o('e pleasei 
you so much. Your idea, " honour's bal," ia, 
though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea ; so, if you 
please, we will let the line stand as it is. ] 
have altered the song as fellows : — 

(Bannock-burn, p. 196.) 

N. B. — I have borrowed the last stanza from 
the common stall edition of Wallace. 

** A false usurper sinks in every fop. 
And liberty returns with every blow.** 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you 
had enough of my correspondence. The post 
goes, and my head aches miserably. One com- 
fort ; I suffer so much, just now, in this world, 
for last night's joviality, that I shall escape scot- 
free fur it in the world to come. Amea ! 



( Auld lang syne, /). 1 9 1 . ) 

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience 
fail ty. You must, after all is over, have a num- 
ber of ballads, properly so called. Gill Morice, 
2Vune:U Muir, MThersona Farewell, Bat- 
tle nf SheriJ^'-muir, or We ran and they ran, 
( f know the author of this charming ballad, 
and his history), Hardyhnute, Barbara AUan, 
(I can furnish a finer set of this tune than 
any thing that has yet appeared) ; and besides, 
do you know that I really have the old tune to 
which The Cherry and the Slae was sung ; 
and which is mentioned as a well known air in 
Scotland's Complaint, a book published before 
poor Mary's days. It was then called 7'he 
bunks u' Helicun ; an old poem which Pinker- 
ton has brought to lighu You will see all this 
in Tytler's Jlistory of Scottish Music. The 
tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit ; 
but it is a g''eat curiosity. I have ,i good many 
drigiJiil tbiug« of this kind. 



No. XLIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 



I2th September, 1793. 
A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
your observations on the list of my songs. I 
am happy to find your ideas so much in unison 
with my own respecting the generality of the 
airs, as well as the verses. About some of them 
we differ, hut there is no disputing about hobby 
horses. I shall not fail to profit by the remarks 
you make ; and to re-consider the whole with 
attention. 

Daintie Davie must be sung, two stanzas 
together, and then the chorus — 'tis the proper 
way. I agree with you, that there may be 
something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in 
the air of Fee him, father, when performed 
with feeling; but a tender cast may be given 
almost to any lively air, if you sing it very slow, 
ly, .expressively, and with serious words. I am, 
however, clearly and invariably for retaining the 
cheerful tunes joined to their own humorous 
verses, wherever the verses are passable. But 
the sweet song for Fee him, father, which you 
began about the back of miduight, I will pub- 
lish as an additional one. Mr. James Balfour, 
the king of good fellows, and the best singer 
of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, 
has charmed thousands of companies with Fet 
him, father, and with Todlin hame also, to th« 
old words, which never should be disunited from 
either of these airs. Some BaLchanals I would 
wish to discard. Fy let us a' to the bridal, foi 
instance, is so coarse and vulgar, that I think it 
1 fit only Xr be sung in a company of drunken col 



CORRESPOiNDENCE. 



Jiers ; an'! Saw ye my father appears to me 
both indelicate and silly. 

One word n)(»re with regard to your heroir 
ode. I thiuk, with great deference to the poet, 
that a prudent general would avoid saying any 
thing to his soldiers which might tend to make 
de^ith more frightful than it is. Gory presents a 
disa^reeal)Ic image to the mind ; and to tell them, 
" Welcome to your gory bed, seems rather a 
discouraging address, notwithstanding the alter- 
native which follows. I have shown the song 
to three friends if excellent taste, and each of 
them objected to this line, which emboldens me 
to use the fre nloni of bringing it again unda vour 
aotice. I would suggest 

*• Now prepare for honour's bed. 
Or for glorious victoria." 



No. XLV. 



THE POET TO MR. THOM.SON. 

September, 1733. 

•' Who shall decide when doctors disagree .'" 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter 
it. Your proposed alterations would, in my o- 
pinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly oblig- 
ed to you for putting uae on re-considering it ; 
as I think I have much improved it. Instead 
of *• so«lger ! hero !" I will have it " Caledo- 
■ian ! on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to 
J>e woi Id some wny or other it shall go as it is. 
At the aime time it will not in the least hurt 
me should you leave it out altogether and adhere 
toyeurtirst intention of adopting Logan's verses.* 

I have finished my song to iiitw ye my fa- 
ther ; and in English, as you will see. .That 
there is a syllable too much for the expression of 
the air, is true ; but allow me to say, that tlie 
Were dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crot- 
chet and a quaver, is not a great matter : how- 
ever, in that I have no pretensions to cope in 
judgment with you. Of the poetiy I speak with 
rrntidence ; but the music is a business where I 
bint my ideas with the utmost diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular ; my advice is to set the air to 
the old wonts, and let mine follow as English 
verses. Here they are — 



• Mr. , homsnn has verv properly a<lt)ptcd this song 
(if It may Ix- so called) us the bard [<resenle4 it to him. 
He has attiicliitl it to the air of Lrvfie Godon, anil per 
haps among the existing airs he .-ou J not find a better; 
but the poetry is hUiled to a much higher strain of mu- 
»ic, aiul mav employ the gexiwit uf some Scottish Han- 
del, if any <inih should in future arise. The reader 
Will have observed, ihat Burns adopted the alieraiions 
propoMti by his I'ncnd aiidcorres|ionileiit in former ni 
Stanits with great readitiess; perhaps, m leed, on all 
indirtirent ooasmns. In ihi present iiistant*, however, 
IR rijiitii! licMi, lhiju;>,li re|-vaie<lly urgeil, with detcr- 

lUM-d .VmiIhIIOM. y 



( Where are the jays I hue met in the morning 
p. 242.) 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! The post goes, so I sUJ 
defer some other remarks until mon leisure 



No. XL VI. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE been turning over some volumes ol 
songs, to find verses whose measures would suit 
the airs for which you have allotted me to find 
English songs. 

For Muirland WiUie, you have, in Ramsay's 
Tea-table, an excellent song, beginning " Ah, 
why those tears in Nelly's eyes?" 4s for Tfie 
Collier's Dochter, take the following i]A Bac- 
chanal. 



(Deluded Swain, p. 198.) 

The faulty line in Logan- water, I mend thus ; 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy 

The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?** 

The song, otherwise, will pass. As to M'* 
Gregoira-Rua-Ruth, you v/ill see a song of 
mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, 
in the Museum, Vol. ii. p. 181. The song be- 
gins, 

" Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Irish airs are prettv but they are down- 
right Irish. If they were like the Banks of 
Banna, for instance, though really Irish, yet in 
the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since 
you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to 
twenty-five of them in an additional number? 
We could easily find this quantity of charming 
airs ; I will take care that you shall not want 
songs ; and I assure you that you will find it 
the most sa'eable of the whole. If you do not 
ap|)rove of Roy's wife, for the music's sake, we 
shall not insert it. Deil tak' the wars, is a 
charming song ; so is, Saw ye my Peggy 9 
There's nae luck alvtul the lumse, well deserves 
a place ; I cannot say that O'er the hills and 
far awa strikes me as equal to your selection. 
This is no my ain house is a great favourite uit 
of mine ; and if }au sena me your set of it, 1 
will task my muse to her kighe^t effort. What 
is your opinion of I hae laid a herrin in sawtf 
I like it much., Your Jacobite airs are pretty ; 
uid there are many others of the san.e kind, 
j)ietty — but you have not room for them. You 
■ •.iiKior, 1 think, insert, fyletrm a' to tie bridle 
to any other words than its own. 



ilO 



BURNS* WORKS. 



What pleases me, as simp.e and naive, dis- 
pists you as ludicrous ^nd low. For this reason, 
Fi/e, gie me wy coggie, sirs — Fi/e, let us W to 
the iridali with several others cf that cast, are, 
to me, highly pl'jasriijg ; while, Suw ye my father^ 
or saw ye my Mother, delights me with its dis- 
criptive simple pathos. Thus, my song, Ken 
ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten 7 pleases 
myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at 
another song to the air ; so I shall not attempt 
It. I know you will laugh at, all this ; but, 
*^ iika maa wears his belt his ain gait." 



No. XLVIL 
THE SAAIF TO THE SAME. 

October, 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was in- 
deed laden with Wwy news. Alas, poor Ers- 
itine ! • The reco'lection that he was a coadju- 
tor in your publication, has, till now, scared me 
hrom writing to you, or turning niy thoughts on 
composing for ^ou. 

1 am pleas*td that you are reconciled to the 
air of the Quaker s Wife, though, by the bye, 
an old Higlilaiid gentleman, and a deep antiqua- 
rian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by 
the name of Leiger *m choss. The following 
verses I hope will please you, as an English sung 
to the air ■ 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy, (p. 214.) 

The rest of your letter I shall answer ?,t some 
other opportunity. 



No. XLVni. 
MR. TH05IS0N TO THE POET. 

•CY GOoi/ SIR, "yth Navember, 1793. 

After so long a silence, it gives me peculiar 
pleasure to recognize your woll known hand, 
for I had begun to be apprelifiisive that all wa« 
not well with you. I am happy to find however, 
that y*ur silence did not proceed from that cause, 
and that you have got aniung the ballads once 
more. 

I have to thank you for your English song to 
Leiger *in chass, which I think cxtifmly good, 
although the colouring is warm. Your friend 
Mr. Turnbull's songs have doubtless consider- 
able merit ; and as you have the command of 



• The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kel- 

ly, whose nelaiieholy death Mr Thomson had cominu- 
tticated i- an excelljnt letier, wiiich he has suppressed. 



his manuscripts, I hope you may find cut wkxh 
that will answer as English songs to the airs y# 
unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1793. 
Tell me how you like the following versei 
to the tune of Jo Janet. 

{Husband, husband, cease your strife, p. 813.) 
( Wilt thou be my dearie 9 p. 242.) 



NoL. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, \lth April, 1794. 

Owing to the distress of our friend for the 
loss of his child, at the time of his receiving 
your admirable but melancholy letter, I had 
not an opportunity 'till lately of perusing it.* 
How sorry am I to find Burns saying, " Canst 
thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" wh?*« 
he is delighting others from one end of the 
island to the other. Like the hypochondriac 
who went to consult a physician upon his case : 
Go, says the doctor, and see the famous Carlini, 
who keeps all Paris in good humour. Alas ! 
Sir, replied the patient, I am that unhappy 
Carlini ! 

Your plan for our meeting together pleases 
me greatly, and I trust that by some means or 
other it will soon take place ; but your Bac- 
chanalian challenge almost frightens me, for I 
am a miserable weak Irinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion 
of his talents. He has just begun a sketch 
from ycur Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it 
pleases himself in the desit;n, he will probably 
etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral 
or humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by 
any artist living. He fails a little in giving 
beauty and grace to his females, and his colour- 
ing is sombre, otherwise his paintings and draw- 
ings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the Sutnrs Dochter^ 
and will consider whether it shall be added tc 
the last volume ; y«ur verses to it are pretty ; 
but your humorous English song, to suit Jt 
Janet, is inimitable. What think you of the air, 
" Within a mile of Edinburgh ?" It has always 
struck me as a modern English imitation ; but 
is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that 
I believe I must include it. The verses are lit« 



• A letter to Mr. Cunningham, to be tounC 
in p. 379. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



41i 



tie better tha^i naniby pamby. 
•ider it worth a stanza or two t 



Do you con 



N >. LI. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MT DEAR SIR, Mat/, 1794. 

I RETURN you the plates, with which I am 
highly pleas«.'d ; I would humbly propose, in- 
stead of the younker knitting stockings, to put 
a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of 
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
subject I have ever met with, and though an 
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the Su- 
nn, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I 
got liiin a peep of the Gentle Shepherd; and 
he pronounces Allan a most original artist of 
great, excellence. 

For my jjart, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing 
my favourite poem for his subject, to be one 
of the highest compliments I have ever re- 
ceived . 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up 
in France, as it will put an entire stop to our 
work. Now, and for six or seven months, / 
shall be quite in song, as you shall see by and 
by. 1 got an air, pretty enough, composed by 
Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, which she 
calls The Banks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful 
lomantic stream : and as her Ladyship is a par- 
t'cuViT friend of n:ine, I have written the fol- 
jwing song to it. 



( The Banks of Cru, p. 226.) 



No. LIL 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

July. 1794. 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 
work to \ui at a dead stop, until the allies set 
3ur modern Or|)heus at liberty from the sa- 
vage thraldom of democratic discords ? Alas 
the lay ! And woe's me ! That auspicious 
period, pregnant with the happiness of mil- 
lions.* — 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued, and much-honoured 
fi-iend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fmtry. I wrote, 
c the blank side of the title page, the following 
iddreM U> the young lady. 



Here, where the Scottish muse immortal »ive» 
In sacred strains and twieful numbers join d. 

Accept the gift ; though humble he who gives. 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

But peace attune th} gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals , 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



No. LIIL 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 



UY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, \Oth Aug. 1794. 
I OWE you an apology for having so long de» 
layed to acknowledge the favour of your last. 
I fear it will be as you say, I shall have nc 
more songs from Pleyel till France and we are 
friends ; but, nevertheless, I am very desirous 
to be prepared with the poetry, and as the sea- 
son approaches in which your muse of Coiia vi- 
sits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be frequent- 
ly gratified with the result of your amorous and 
tender interviews ' 



No. LIV. 



• A portion of thi<; letter has been left out, far ie»- 
oiM that wiJJ be i^asily imaginetL — Cukaib. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

30M August 1794. 
The last evening, as was straying out and 
thinking of. O'er the hills and far awa, 
spun the following stanza for it ; but whether 
my spmning will deserve to be laid up in store 
like the precious thread of the silk -worm, or 
j brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture 
• of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your usuai 
i candid criticism I was pleased with several 
lines in it at tirst ; but I own, that now, it ap- 
j pears rather a flimsy business 
' This is just a haisty sketch, until I see whe 
ther it be worth a critique. We have many 
sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present reco.. 
lect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial 
sailor, not the wailings of his love-lorn mis- 
tress. I mu.^t here make one sweet exception 
I — Swtet Annie frae the Sea-beach came 
Now for the song. 

( On the seas and far awajft p. 219.) 



41'^ 



I give you leavts .o abuse this song, but do it 
in the spirit of christian meekneu. 



BURNS'S WORKS 

( Ca the yitces to the knowes, p. 195 



No. LV. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

•tY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, \6th Sept, 1794. 

You have anticipated my opinion of, On the 
seas and far away ; I do not think it one of 
your very happy productions, though it cer- 
tainly contains stanzas that are worthy of all ac- 
ceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking, pirti- 
cuiarly " Bullets, spare my only joy." Con- 
found the bullets ! It might perhaps be object- 
ed to the third verse, " At the starless mid- 
night hour," that it has too much grandeur of 
imagery, and that greater simplicity of thought 
would have better suited the character of a sai- 
lor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be re- 
membered, Is of the brisk, cheerful kind. Upon 
the whole, therefore, in my humble opinion, the 
song would be better adapted to the tuue, if it 
consisted only of the first and last verses, with 
the chorusses. 



No. LVI. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1794. 

I SHALL withdraw my. On the seas and far 
•iway, altogether: it is unequal, and unworthy 
the work. Making a poem is like begetting a 
eon : you cannot Vvow whether you have a wise 
man or a fooi, nmil y^m produce him to the 
world and try hi«i,. 

For that reason I >end you the offsprin": of 
my brain, ah(>rtu>ns and all ; and, as such, pray 
look over them, and forgive them, and burn 
them.* I am flattered at your adopting, Cti* 
the yowes to the knawes, as it was owing to me 
tliat ever it saw the light. About seven years 
ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little 
fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung 
it charmingly ; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke 
took it down from his singing. When I gave 
it to Johuson, I added some stanzas to the song, 
and mended others, but still it will not do for 
you. In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, 
I tried uiy hand on a few pastoral lines, follow- 
ing up the idea of the chorus, which I would 
pr^eive. Here it is, with all its crudities and 
imperfections on its head. 



I shall give you my opinion of your otiMK 
newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 



• Ihis Vjrgilian order of the poet should, I think, 
31 disobeyed with respect to the song in question, 
he second stanza excepted. — Note by Mr. Thornton. 

Doctois ditltr. The objection to the second stanza 
does not strike the Editor — Currie. 



No. LVII. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

September, 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard It ish song, called 
Onugks water-fall 9 The air is charming, 
and I have often regretted the want of decent 
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my 
humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort 
of hers shall have merit ; still I think that it ia 
better to have mediocre verses to a favourite 
air, than none at all. On this principle I have 
all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Mu- 
seum, and as that publication is in its last vo- 
lume, I intend the following song, to the air 
above mentioned, for that work. 

If it does cot suit you as an editor, you may 
be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing 
before ladies. 

(Saejlaxm were her ringlets, p. 228.) 

Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting : we are told that he 
frequently admired what the connoisseurs de- 
cried, and always without any hypocrisy con- 
fessed his admiration. I am sensible that my 
taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, 
because people of undisputed and cultivated taste 
can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Sti.^ 
because 1 am cheaply pleased, is that any rea- 
son why I should deny myself that pleasure? 
INIany of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, 
give me the most exquisite enjoyment, where 
you and other judges would probably be show- 
ing disgust. For instai»ce, I am just now mak- 
ing verses for Rothemurche^s Rant, an air 
which puts me in raptures ; and in fact, unless 
I be pleasefl with the tune, I never can make 
verses to it. Here I have Clarke on my side, 
who is a judge that I will pit against any o 
you. " Ruthemurche," he says, " is an air 
both original and beautiful ;'* and on his recom- 
mendation I have taken the first part of the 
tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last par* 
for the song. I am but two stanzas deep in th« 
work, and possibly you may think, and justly, 
that the poetry is as little worth your attention 
as the music* 

I have begun anew. Let me in this ae night. 
Do you think that we ought to retain the old 
chorus ? I think we must retain both the old 



* In the original follow here two stanzas of the song 
Lasaie wi' the liuUwhite locks." 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



413 



diorus and the first stanza of the old song I 
do not altogether like the third line of the first 
stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I 
tm just three stanzas deep in it. Would you 
have the denouement to be successful or other- 
wise ? — should she " let him in" or not. 

Did you not once propose The Sow's tail to 
Gmrdie, as an air for your work ? I am quite 
delighted with it ; but I acknowledge that is 
no mark of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it, which I meant to be in the alter- 
nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
t«jgether. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
Mrs Thomson's Christian name, and yours, I 
am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, 
else I had meant to have made you the hero 
and heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, 
which I wnite the other day on a lovely young 
girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell 
was the physician who seemingly saved her 
from the grave ; and to him I address the fol- 
lowing:— 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIg's RECOVERT. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit I deny ; 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die ! 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle I 



all poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefbv-e, and 
make tlie other Jamie, or any other that sounda 
agreeably. 

Your Ca* the yewe$, is a precious little mor 
ceau. Indeed I am perfectly istonished dn4 
charmed with the endhss variety of your faucv* 
Here let me ask you. ^ nether you never serious- 
ly turned your thoughts upon dramatic writing ? 
That is a field worthy of your genius, in which 
it might shine forth in all its splendour. On« 
or two successful pieces upon the London stage 
would make your fortune. The rage at present 
is for musical dramas ; few or none of those 
which have appeared since the Duenna, pos- 
sess much poetical merit ; there is little in the 
conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to inter- 
est the audience. They are chiefly vehicles for 
music and pageantry. I think you might produce 
a comic opera in three acts, which would live 
by the poetry, at the same time that it would be 
proper to take every assistance from her tune- 
ful sister. Part of the songs of course would 
be to our favourite Scottish airs ; the rest might 
be left with the London com()oser — Storace for 
Drury-lane, or Shield for Covent-garden ; both 
of them very able and popular musicians. I be- 
lieve that interest and manoeuvring are often ne- 
cessary to have a drama brought on : so it ipoy 
be with the namby pamby tribe of flowery 
scribblers ; but were you to address Mr. Sheri- 
dan himself by letter, and send him a dramatic 
piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour 
of genius, give tt a fair and candid trial. Ex- 
cuse me for obtruding these hints upon youi coa« 
sideration. • 



No. LVIIL 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now at- 
tendant upon her favourite poet, whose wood- 
nnies wild are become as enchanting as ever. 
She says she lo'es me best o' a, is one of the 
pleasnntest table songs I have seen, and hence- 
forth shall be mine when the song is gi.mg 
round. I'll give Cunningham a copy ; he can 
more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far 
from undervaluing your taste for the straths,.ey 
music ; on the contrary, I think it highly ani- 
mating and agreeable, and that some of the. 
•trathspeVH, when graced with such verses as | 
yours, will make very pleasing songs, m the | 
same wav that rough Christians are tempered 
■nd softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
rou know, they had been brutes. 

I am cear for having the Sows tail, parti- 
tMiariy as you proposed verses to it are so ex- 
tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, 
is a name oniv fit for burlesque composition. 
M/»- Thnuiion's name (Katharine) is not at 



No. Lli. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, lith October, 179*. 
The last eight days have been devoted to thf 
re-examination of the Scottish collections. 1 
have read, and sung, and fiddled, and consider^ 
ed, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. The 
few aiis I have added, are enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the 
songs I expected from him, which are in gener- 
al elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of a 
London collection of Scottish airs and songs, 
just published by Mr. Ritson, an Englishman. 
I shall send you a copy. His introductory es- 
say on the subject is curious, and evince* grea* 
reading and research, but does not decide thp 
question as to the origin of our melodies J 
though he shows clearly that Mr. Tytler, in h» 
ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort of 
proof of the hypothesis he wished to establish ; 
and that his classification of the airs, according 



• Our bard had before received the same advice, and 
certainly took it so far into consideration, as to hav« 
cast alx)ut for a subject 



iU 



BURNS WORKS 



to the eras when they were composed, is mere 
fancy and conjecture. On John Pinkerton, Esq. 
he has no m*"rcy ; but consigns him to damna- 
tion ! He snarls at my publication, on the score 
of Pindar being engaged to write songs for it; 
uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, 
that the songs of Scottish writers had been sent 
a-packing to make room for Peter's ! Of you he 
speaks with some respect, but gives you a pass- 
ing hit or two, for daring to dress up a little 
some old foolish songs for the Museum. His 
sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from 
the oldest collections and the best authorities : 
many of them, however, have such a strange as- 
pect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung 
by every person of taste, old or young, in town 
or country, that we can scarcely recognize the 
features of our favourites. By going to the oldest 
collections of our music, it does not follow that 
we find the mt^lodies in their original state. 
These melodies had been preserved, we know 
not how long, by oral communication, before be- 
ing collected and printed ; and as different per- 
sons sing the same air very differently, accord- 
ing to their accurate or confused recollection of 
it, so even supposing the first collectors to have 
possessed the industry, the taste and discernment 
to choose the best they could hear, (which is far 
from certain), still it must evidently be a chance, 
whether the collections exhibit any of the me- 
lodies in the stite they were first composed. 
In selecting the melodies for my own collection, 
I have been as much guided by the living as by 
the dead. Where these differed, I preferred the 
sets thit appeared to me the most simple and 
beautiful, and the most generally approved ; 
and, without meaning any compliment to my 
own capability of choosing, or speaking of the 
pains I have taken, I flatter myself that my sets 
irill be found equally freed from vulgar errors on 
the one hand, and affected graces on the other. 



No. LX. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MT D2AR FRIEND, \9th October, 1794. 

By this morning's post I have your list, and, 
in general, I highly approve of if. I shall, at 
more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and 
I wish you would call on him and take his opi- 
nion in general : you know his taste is a stand- 
ard. He will return here again in a week or 
two ; so, please do not miss asking for him. One 
thing I hope he will do, persuade you to a- 
iopt my favourite, Craigie-burn-wood, in your 
•election : It is as great a favourite of his as of 
mine. The lady on whom it was made is one 
of the finest women in Scotland ; and, in fact, 
(ew^re nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's 
Eliza was to him — a inistress, a friend, or what 
fou will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic 



love. (Now ion t put any of out st)i.inting 
constructions on this, or have anv clisiimaclaivei 
about it among our acquaintances.) I assure 
you that to my lovely friend you are irxiebted foi 
many of your best songs of mine. Do you think 
that the sober gin -horse routine of existence,, 
could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy 
— could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him 
with pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? 
— No ! no ! — Whenever I want to he more than 
ordinary in song : to be in some degree equal 
to your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and 
pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout au 
contraire ! I have a glorious recipe ; the very 
one that for his own use was invented by the di- 
vinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped 
to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a re- 
gimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in propor< 
tion to the adorability of her charms, iii propor- 
tion you are delighted with my verses. The light- 
ning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and 
the witchery ot her smile the divinity of Heli- 
con ! 

To descend to business ; if you like my idea 
of, When she cam ben she bobbit, the following 
stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they 
were formerly when set to another air, may per 
haps do instead of worse stanzas. 

SAW YE MY PHELY. 

( Qiiasi dicat Phillis.) 

Tune—*' When she came ben she bobbit." 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ?_ 
She's down i' the grove, wi' a new love. 
She winna conr.e hame to her Willie. 

What says she, n t dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot. 
And for ever disowns thee her Willie. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willie. 



Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. Tiic 
Posie (in the Museum), is my composition : 
the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns 
voice. It is well known in the West Coun- 
try, but the old words are trash. By the bye, 
take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you 
do not think it is the original from which Ros- 
lin Castle is composed. The second part, io 
particular, for the first two or three bars, is ex- 
actly the old air. Strathallans Lament is 
mine ; the music is by our right-trusty ar d de- 
servedly well-beloved, Allan Masterton. Do- 
nocht-head, is not mine: I would give ten 
pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edin- 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



415 



Vjrgt Heralf! ; and came to the Editor of that 
paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it. • 
Whistle o'er the lave nt is mine ; the mnsic 
•aid to l)e by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin 
player in Dimifries, about the beginning of this 
century. This I know, Bruce, who was an 
honest man, though a red-wud Highland man, 
constantly claimed it ; and by all the old musi- 
cal people here, is believed to be the author of it. 

Andrew and his cutty gun. The song to 
which this is set in the Museum, is mine ; and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the 
Flower of Strathmore. 

H:)w long and dreary is the night. I met 
witi some such words in a collection of songs 
somewhere, whicii I altered and enlarged ; and 
to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I 
haTe taken a stride or two across my room, and 
have arranged it anew, as you will find on the 
other page. 

{How long and dreary is the night, p. 205.) 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from 
your idea of the expression of the tune. There 
is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You 
cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to 
your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, 
a nited performer, plays and sings at the same 
time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to 
see any of her songs sent into the world as na- 
k»^ as Mr. What-d'ye-call-ura has done in his 
London collection.f 

These English songs gravel me to death. I 
have not that command of the language that I 
have of my native tongue. I have been at 
Duncan Gray, to dress it in English, but all I 
can do is deplorably stupid. For instance : 

(^Let not woman e'er complain, p. 209. ) 

Since the above, I have been out in the coun- 
try taking a dinner with a friend, where I met 
with the lady whom I mentioned in the second 
page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usu- 
al, I got into song ; and returning home, I com- 
posed the following. 

(Sleej)\<it tf-OH, or wak'st thou, fairest creature, 
p. 235.) 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to 
them, I will vamp up the old song, and make 
it Englii^h enoug^n to be understood. 

I enclose you a mu.'«ical rtr.osity, an East 
Indian air, which you woulu swear was a Scot- 
tish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the 
gentleman who brought it over is a particular 
Bcquaintarce of mine. Do preserve me the 
copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. 



• Th« reader will be cunoui to >ee this potTn 

l\f f w Trained bv Burnt ^ee p. 151. 
> Mi. Riuon. 



Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend pr t. 
ting it into the Musical Museum. Here fol- 
low the verses I intend for it. 

( The auld man, p. 22b.) 

I would be obliged to you if you would pro- 
cure me a sight of Ritson s collection of Eng- 
lish songs, which you mention in your letter. 
I will thank you for another information, and 
that as speedily as you please • wliether this 
miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not 
completely tired you of my correspondeace ? 



No. LXI. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 

Edinburgh, 27th October, 1 794. 

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine 
poet can no more exist without his mistress than 
his meat. I wish I knew the adorable she, 
whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so 
often enraptured the Scottish hard ! that I might 
drink her sweet health when the toast is going 
round Craigie-burn-wood, must ceitainly be 
ad«»pted into my family, since alie is the object 
of the song ; but in the name of decency, I must 
beg a new chorus verse from you. O to be ly- 
ing beyond thee, dearie, is perhaps a consum- 
mation to be wished, but will not do for singing 
in the company of ladies The songs in youi 
last will do you lasting credit, and suit the re- 
spective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your 
opinion with respect to the additional airs. The 
idea of sending them into the world naked as 
they were born was ungenerous. They must all 
be clothed and made decent by our friend Clarke. 

I find 1 am anticipated by the friendlv Cun- 
ningham, in sending your Ritson's Scottish col- 
lection. Permit me, therefore, to present yow 
with his English collection, which you will re- 
ceive by the coach. I do not find his historica 
essay on Scottish song interesting. Your anec- 
dotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure, 
be much more so. Allan has just sketched a 
charming design from Maggie Lauder She is 
dancing with such spirit as to electrify the piper, 
who seems almost dancing too, while he is play- 
ing with the most exquisite glee. 

I an much inclined to get a small copy, and 
to have it engraved in the style of Ritson's 
prints. 

P. S. — Pray, what do your ane(;dotes sav 
concerning Maggie Lauder? was she a ut. 
personage, and of what rank ? You would sjit> 
ly spier for her if you ca'd at Anstruikm 
*own. 



iiS 



B(JRNS* WORKS. 



No. Lxn. 

THE POET TO Ma THOMSON. 

November, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, My dear Sir, for your 
present : it is a book of the utmost importance 
to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, 
&c. for your work. I intend drawing it up in 
the form of a letter to you, which will save me 
from the tedious dull business of systematic ar- 
rangement. Indeed, as all I have to say con- 
•ists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps 
of old songs, &c. it would be impossible to give 
tK? work a beginning, a middle, and an end ; 
which the critics insist to be absolutely neces- 
sary in a work. In my last, I to!d you my 
objections to the song you had selected for Mif 
lodging is on the cold ground. On my visit 
the other Jay to my fair Chloris. (that is the 
poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspi- 
ration), she suggested an idea, which I, in my 
return from the visit, wrought into the follow- 
ing song :— 



{Chloris, p. 197.) 



How do you like the simplicity and tenderness 
of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of Ma chere Amie. I as- 
sure you, I was never more in earnest in my 
life, than in the account of that aifair which I 
Bent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion 
which 1 deeply feel and highly venerate; but, 
somehow, it does not make such a figure in 
poesy as that other species of the passion, 

" Where Love is liberty, and Nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument 
of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but 
the tones inexpressioly sweet ; while the hist 
has powers equal to all the intellectual modula- 
tions of the human soul. Still, I am a very 
poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The 
welfare and happiness of the beloved object is 
the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades 
my soul ; and whatever pleasures I might wish 
for, or whatever might be the raptures they 
would give me, yet, if they interfere with that 
first principle, it is having these pleasures at a 
dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and gene- 
rosity disdains the pui chase! 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections, to pick out songs 
of which the measure is something similar to 
what I want ; and with a little alteration, so as 
wo suit the rhyme of the air exsctly, to give you 
Jiem for your work. Where the songs have 
bitberto been but little ootined, nor have ever 



been set to music, I think the shiit a fair JisS, 
A song, which, under the same Jr?t verse, yoc 
will find in Ramsay's Tea- Tahf ; Miscellany, 1 
have cut down for an Englisl dress to /oar 
Dainty Davie, as follows . — 

( Chloe, JO. 196 ) 

You may think meanly of this, but take a 
look at the bombast original, and you will be 
surprised that I have made so much of it. I 
have finished my song to Rothemurche^ s Rant; 
and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set ot 
the air for singing. 

{Lassie wi' the lint-white lochs, p. 208.) 

This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, 
well : if not, I will insert it in the Museum 

I am out of temper that you should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as Deil tak the wars, 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silli- 
ness of Saw ye my father ; by heavens, the 
odds is, gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, 
though now pretty well modernized into the 
Scottish language, is originally, ami in the ear- 
ly editions, a bungling low imitation of the 
S(;ottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey ; 
so has no pretensions to be a Scottish produc- 
tion. There is a pretty English song by She- 
ridan in the Duenna, to this air, which is out 
of sight superior to D'Urfey 's. It begins, 

" When sable night each drooping plant re- 
storing." 

The air, if I understand the expression of it 
properly, is the very native language of simpli- 
city, tenderness, and love. I have again gone 
over my song to the tune as follows.* 

Now for my English song to Nancy^s to the 
Greenwood, &c. 



{Marians Dwell ag, p. 260. ) 

There is an air. The Caledonian Hunt's de- 
light, to which I wrote a song that you wit 
find in Johnson. Ye banks and braes o* bonn» 
Doon ; this air, I think, might find a place a- 
mong your hundred, as Lear says of his knights 
Do you know the history of the air ? It is cu- 
rious enough. A good many years ago, Mr 
James Miller, writer in your good town, a gen- 
tleman whom possibly you know, was in com- 
pany with our friend Clarke ; and talking o. 
Scottish music. Miller expressed an ardent am> 
Dition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr 



* Sec the sons in its first and best dress iu p 1 /& 



41V 



Clarke, part/y by way of joke, told him to keep 
o the black keys of the harpsichord, and pre- 
lerve some kind of rhyme ; and he would in- 
fcllihly compose a Scots air. Certain it is that, 
in a few days, Mr. IVIiller produced the rudi- 
ments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some 
touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune 
in question. Ritson, you know, has the same 
Btory of the Black Keys; but this account 
which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke in- 
formed me of, sevCTal years ago. Now to shew 
fou how difficult it is to trace the origin of our 
airs, I have heard it repeatedly asr^rted that this 
was an Irish air ; nay, I met with an Irish gen- 
tleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland 
among the old women ; while, on the ether 
hand, a Countess informed me, that the first 
person who introduced the air into this country, 
was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who 
took down the notes from an itinerant piper in 
the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascer- 
tain the truth respecting our poesy and music ' 
I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads 
BUDg thiough the streets of Dumfries, with 
my name at the head of them as the author, 
though it was the first time I had ever seen 
them. 

I thank you for admitting Craigie-hurn- 
wood ; and I shall take are to furnish you with 
a new chorus. In fact, the choruo was not my 
work, but a part of some old verses to the air. 
If I can catch myself in a more than ordinarily 
propitious moment, I shall write a new Craigie- 
burn-tcood altogether. IVIy heart is much in 
the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in 
a moment, when I had forgottei. whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest |>ri(le t.i write you 
this ; but au ungracious request is doubly so 
by a tedious apology. To make you some a- 
mends, as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
sary information out of them, I will return you 
Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collection, 
and I am not a little proud that I have it in 
my power to please her so much. Lucky it is 
for yeur pati;:::ce that my paper U done, for 
when I am in a scribbling humour, I hnow not 
when to give over. 



No. LXIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

mr GOOD SIR, \5th November, 1794. 

Since receiving your last, I have had ano- 
ther interview with Mr. Qarke, and a long con- 
■uitation. He thinks the CaUdonian Hunt it 



more Bacchanalian than amorous in its nature 
and recommends it to you to match the air ac- 
cordingly. Pray did it ever occur to you how 
peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapted for 
verses in the form of a dialogue ? The first 
part of the air is generally low, and suited for 
a man's voice, and the second part in many in- 
stances cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by 
a female voice. A song thus performed makes 
an agreeable variety, but few of ours are writ- 
ten in this form : I wish you would think of it 
in some of those that remain. The only one of 
the kind you have sent me, is admirable, and 
will he an universal favourite. 

Your v^ses for liot/iemurche are so sweetly 
pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for Z)eil 
tah the wars, so passionately tender, that I have 
sung myself into raptures with them. Your 
song for Mg lodging is on the cold ground, is 
likewise a diamond of the first water ; I am 
quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your 
Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, from your 
partiality for this colour ; else we differ about 
it ; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to 
be a beauty, on reading that she had lint-white 
locks ! 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows, I 
think excellent, but it is much too serious to 
come after Nancy : at least it would seem an 
incongruity to provide the same air with merry 
Scottish and melancholy English verses ! The 
more that the two sets of verses resemble each 
other in their general character, the better. 
Those you have manufactured for Dainty 
Davie, will answer charmingly. I am happy 
to find you have begun your anecdotes; I care 
not how long they be, for it is impossible that 
any thing from your pen can be tedious. Let 
me beseech you not to use ceremony in telling 
me when you wish to present any of" your friends 
with the songs : the next carrier will bring you 
three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty 
as to a pinch of suuflL 



No. LXXV. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

\9th November, 1794. 
You see, my dear Sir, what a punctuai cor- 
respondent I am ; though indeed you may thank 
yourself for the tedium of my letrers, as you 
have so flattered me on my horsemanship with 
my favourite hobby, and have praised the 
grace of his ambling so much, that 1 am scarce- 
ly ever off his back. For instance, this mor- 
ning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk 
before breakfast, I finished my duet which you 
were pleased to praise so much. Whether I 
have uniformly succeeded, I will not say ; but 
here it is for you, though it ia not an hour old. 



418 



BURNS* WORKS. 



( OPhilly, happy be that day, p. 220.) 

Tell me honestly how you like it ; and point 
out whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing 
our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that 
you did noth nt it to me sooner. In those that 
remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember 
your objections to the name Philly ; hut it is 
the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the 
only other name that suits, has, to my ear, a 
vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any thing 
except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poe- 
tasters of the day, whom your brother editor, 
Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have 
always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity ; where- 
as, simplicity is as much eloignSe from vulgarity 
on the one hand, as from affected point and puer- 
ile, conceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, Craigie-hurn- 
wood, that a chorus would in some degree spoil 
the effect, and shall certainly have none in my 
projected song to it. It is not however a case 
in point with Rothiemurehie ; there, as in Ro^s 
Wife of Aldivalloch, a chorus goes, to my taste, 
well enough. As to the chorus going first, that 
is the case with Roys Wife, as well as Rothie- 
murehie. In fact, in the first part of both tunes, 
the rhyme is so peculiar and irregular, and on 
that irregularity depends so much of their beau- 
ty, that we must e'en take them with all their 
wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. 
Leaving out the starting note, in both tunes, has, 
I think, an effect that no regularity could coun- 
terbalance the want of. 



Try 
and 



( O Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
\ O lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 



Compare i Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
with \ Lassie wi* the lint-white locks 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
strike you ? In the last case, with the true 
furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild 
originality of the air ; whereas in the first insi- 
pid method, it is like the grating screw of the 
pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This 
is my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the 
cognoscenti. 

The Caledonian Hunt is so charming, that 
it would make any subject in a song go down ; 
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot- 
tish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the 
few we have are excellent. For instance, Tod- 
Un home is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled 
composition ; and Andrew and his cutty gun is 
the work of a master. By the way, are you not 
quite vexed to think that those men of genius, 
for.such they certainly were, who composed our 
ifioe -Scottish lyrics, should be unknown ! It hat 
jiven.Bje many a heart-ache. Apropos to Bac- 
-chanaliaa songs in Scottish i I composed one 
yester44yfi9r %n a.r I like much — Lumps o* pud 



( Contented wV little, and cantte wt matr, 9 
197.^ 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have frameA 
a couple of English Stanzas, by way of an Eng 
lish song to Roy's wife. You will allow me 
that in this instance, my English corresponds in 
sentiment with the Scottish. 

( Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 9 p, 196 ) 

Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum 
of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth ), that I much suspect he has, in his plates, 
mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I 
have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude 
instrument. It is composed of three parts ; the 
stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, 
such as you see in a mutton-ham ; the horn, 
which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut 
off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large 
enough to admit the stock to be pushed up 
through the horn, until it be held by the thicker 
end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an oaten 
reed exactly cut and notched like that which 
you see every shepherd- boy have, when the 
corn stems are green and full-grown. The reed 
is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the 
lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the 
stock ; while the stock, with the horn hanging 
on its larger end, is held by the hnnds in play- 
ing. The stock has six or seven ventiges on the 
upper side, and one back-ventige, like the com- 
mon flute. This of mine was made by a man 
from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what 
the shepherds wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow- 
ing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. H 
Mr Allan chooses, I will send him a sight oJ 
mine ; as I look on myself to be a kind of bro- 
ther-brush with him. " Pride in Poets is nae 
sin," and, I will say it, that I look on Mr. Al« 
Ian and Mr. Burns to be the only g'enuine and 
real painters of Scutiisl: aostume in the world 



No. LXV. 

MF THOMSON TO THE POET 

£8M November, 1794. 
I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear Sit, you are not 
only the most punctual, but the most delectable 
correspondent I ever met with. To attempt 
flattering you never entered my head ; thd truth 
is, I look back with surprise at my iiitpudeuce, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



419 



m BO frequently nibbling at lines and couplets 
•f your incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, 
if you had served me right, you would have 
ent me to the devil. On the contrary, how- 
ever, you have all along condescendt-d to invite 
my criticism with so much courtesy, that it 
ceases to be wonderful, if I have sometimes 
given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your last 
budget demands unqualified praise : all the sOngs 
are charming, but the duet is a chief (Tobuvre. 
Lumps Off pudding shall certainly make one of 
my family dishes ; you have cooked it so capi- 
tally, that it will please all palates. Do give 
U8 a few more of this cast, when you find your- 
self in good spirits : these convivial songs are 
more wanted than those of the amorous kind, 
of which we have great choice. Besides, one 
does ny; often meet with a singer capable of 
giving t'je proper effect to the latter, while the 
former are easily sung, and acceptable to every 
body. I participate in your regret that the au- 
thors of some of our best songs are unknown ; it 
is provoking to every admirer of genius. 

I n\ean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad, The Soldier's return, to be en- 
graved for one of my frontispieces. The most 
interesting point of time appeals to me, when 
she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, " She 
gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three lines 
immediately following, are no doubt more im- 
pressive on the reader's feelings ; but were the 
pamter to fix on these, then you'll observe the 
animation and anxiety of her countenance is 
gone, and he could only represent her fainting 
in the soldier's arms. But I submit the matter 
to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your ac- 
curate description of the stock and horn, and 
for the very gratifying compliment you pay him 
in considering him worthy of standing in a niche 
by the side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon. 
He has seen the rude instrument you describe, 
so docs not want you to send it ; but wishes to 
know whether you believe it to have ever been 
generally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish 
shepherds, and when, and in what part of the 
country chiefly. I doubt much if it was capa- 
ble of any thing but muting and roaring. A 
fri»nd of mine says, he remembers to have heard 
one in his younger days (made of wood instead 
of your bone), and that the sound was abomin- 
able. 

Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 



Jacobite song, in the Museum, to There'll never 
be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not so 
well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love- 
song to that air, I have just fiamed for you th« 
following : 

(My Nannie's awa, p. 212. ) 

How does this please you ? As to the point 
of time for the expression, in your proposed 
print from my Sodger's return : It must cer- 
tainly be at — " She gazed." The interesting 
dubiety and suspense, taking possession of her 
countenance ; and the gushing fondness, with 
a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike 
me, as things of which a m:-:ster w^ll make a 
great deal. In great haste, but in great truths 
yours. 



No. LXVI. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

December ^ 179+. 
IT it, I amure you, the pi ide of my heart to 
do any thing to forwara, or add to the value of 
four book : anJ as I agree with you that the 



No. LXVII. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

January y 1796. 

I FkAR for my songs : however, a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the 
same style, disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks havebp<;n 
describing the spring, for instance ; and as the 
spring continues the same, there must soon bo 
a sameness in the imagery, &c. of these said 
rhyming folks. 

A great critic, Aiken on songs, says, that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for song 
writing. The following is on neither subject, 
and consequently is no song ; but will be al- 
lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. 

( A man's a man for a' that, p. 67. ) 

I do not give you the foregoing song for youi 
book, but merely by way of vive la bayatelle ; 
for the piece is not really poetry. How will 
the following do for Craigie-bunt-wood f 

(Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, p. 224.) 

Farewell ! God bless yon. 



No. LXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 30 fh Jan. IY9ft 

I THANK you heartily for Navnie's awa, ai 
well as for Cruiyie-hurn, wlii h I tlnnk a very 
convely pair. Your oi.serv.itii n .r,, r|ir difticul- 



420 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ty of original writing in a number of efforts, in 
the same style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it 
has again and again excited my wonder to find 
you continually surmounting this difficulty, in 
the many delightful songs you have seat me. 
Your rive la bagatelle song, For a that, shall 
undoubtedly be included in my list. 



So. LXIX. 

THE POET T!) MR. THOMSON. 

Februart/, 1795. 
Here is another trial at your favourite air. 

( O let me in this ae night, and Answer, 
p.217.) 

I do QOt know whether it will do. 



No. LXX. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Fcdefecknn, 1th Feb. 1795. 

MY DEAR THOMSON, 

You cannot have any idea of the predica- 
ment in which I write to you. la the cour.«e 
of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I 
have acted of late) I came yesternight to this 
unfortunate, wicked, little village. I have gone 
forward, but snovvs of ten feet deep have im- 
peded my progress : I have tried to " gae back 
the gate I cam again," but the same ol)stacle 
has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add 
to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has 
been torturing catgut, in sounds that would 
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow, under 
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on 
that very account, exceeding good company. In 
tact, 1 have been in a dilemma, either to get 
drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang my- 
self, to get rid of them : like a pruden* man, 
(a character congenial to my every thought, 
word, and deed), I, of two evils have chosen 
the least, and am very drunk, at your service !* 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
had not time then to tell you all I wanted to 
say ; and heaven knows, at present, I have not 
capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it, We'll gang nae mair to yon town : I 
think, in slowish time, it would make an excel- 
lent song. I am highly delighted with it ; and 
if you should think it worthy of your attention, 
I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would 
consecrate it. 



As I am just going to bed, I wish you a gooi 

night. 



No, LXXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

2bth February, 1795. 

I HAVE to thank yoa, my dear Sir, for tw« 
epistles, one containing Let me in this ae night ; 
and the other from Ecclefecban, proving, that 
drunk or sober, your " mind is never muddy.'' 
You have displayed great address in the above 
song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same 
time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise 
would have attached to his entreaties. 1 like 
the song as it now stands very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some days 
at Ecclefecban, and be obliged to beguile the 
tedious forenoons by song making. it wiU 
give me pleasure to receive the verses yo» in- 
tend for, O wat ye wha's in yon iown 9 



No. LXXIl, 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1796. 
( The Woodlark, p, 237. ) 

Let me know your very first leisure how yott 
like this song. 

( Long, long the night, p. ^(fj ) 

How do yoM like the foregoing ? The Irisl? 
air, Humours of Glen, is a great favourite Oi 
mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor 
Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, 
I have written for it as follows : — 

( Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign land* 
reckon, p 195.) 

( ' Twos na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruitki 
/).237.) 

Let me hear from you. 



• The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse 
iweet Ecc -fechan at this rate. 



No. Lxxm. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

You must not think, my good Sir, that I 
have any intention to enhanc/e the value of my 



jpfif wlien I say, in justice to the ingenious and 
irorthy artist, that the design and execution of 
The Cotter's Saturday Night is, in my opi- 
nion, one of the happiest productions of Allan's 
pt;ncil. I shall be grievously disappointed if 
vou d.« not quite pleased with it. 

Ihe figure intended for your portrait, I think 
strikingly like you, as far as I can remember 
your phix. This should make the piece inter- 
esting to your family every way. Tell me 
whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the 
figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic Address 
to the Woodlark, your elegant Panegyric on 
Caledonia, and your affecting verses on Chln- 
m' illness. Every repeated perusal of these 
gives new delight. The other song to Laddie 
He near me, though not equal to these, is very 
pieasiag. 



No. Lxxyv. 

THE POFT TO MR. THOMSON. 

(^How crvel ore the parents, p. 204. ) 

{Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion^ />. 211.) 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I 
answer your orders : your tailor could not be 
more punctual. I am just now in a high fit 
of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of 
criticism don't cure me. If you can in a pi)st 
or two administer a little of the intoxicating 
potion of your applause, it will raise your hum- 
ble servant's phrenzy to any height you want. 
I am at this moment " holding high converse" 
with the Muses, and have nut a word to throw 
•wav on such a prosaic dog as you are. 



No. LXXV. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Mntj, 1795. 
Ten thousand thanks for your elegant pre- 
sent ; though I am ashametl of the value of it, 
Deing bestoued on a man who has not by any 
means iiu-rited such an instance of kindness. I 
nave shown it to two or three judges of the 
first abilities here, and they all agree with me 
in dossing it as a first-rjte pnxluction. My 
phi2 is " sae kenspeckle," that the very joiner's 
apprentice whom Mrs. Rums employed to break 
•p the parcel (I wa.s out of town that day) 
knew it at once. My most grateful compli- 
nents fo Allan, who bis honoured my rutttic 
vuae so much with his matiterl) pencil. One 



strange coincidence is, that the Httle one wn<i 
is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail 
is the most striking likeness of an " ill-deed itt 
d — n*d, wee, rumble-garie, urchin" of mitieu 
whom, from that propensity to witty wirked- 
ncss and manfu* m'schief, which, even at tw 
days auld, I foresaw would form the strikin-;: 
features of his disposition, I mimed Willie Nicoll, 
after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the 
masters of a grammar-school in a city which 
shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much- 
valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that 
on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, 
iu a manner introduced me — I mean a well 
known military and literary character, Colonel 
Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my tW9 
last songs. Are they condemned ? 



No. LXXVI. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

\Sth May, 1796 
It gives me great pleasuie to find that yoa 
I are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's pro- 
duction. The chance resemblimce of your little 
fellow, whose promising disposition appeired sc 
very early, and sugifested whom he should be 
named after, is curious enough. I am acquaint- 
ed with that person, who is a prodigy of learn- 
ing and genius, and a pleasant fellow, tboiigl 
no saint. 

You really make n\e blush when you tell me 
you have not merited the drawing from me. I 
do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficient- 
Iv estvem and respect vou for the liberal and 
kmd manner m which you have entered into 
the spirit of my undertaking, which could not 
have been perfected without you : So I beg you 
would not make a fool of me again, by speaking 
of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and 
am happy to find you are in such a high fit of 
poetizing. Long may it last. Claike has made 
a fine pathetic iw to Mallet's superlative ballad 
:)f William and Margaret, and is to give it to 
me, to be enrolled among the elect. 



No. Lxxvn. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 



In Whistle and FU come to ye, my lad, th« 

iteration of that line iw tiresome to my ev 



goes 



what I think is an imorovenieut 



422 



BURNS' WORKS. 



O whistle, and V\] come to ye, my lad ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father, and mother, and a' should gae mad, 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' yc^my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the 
Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- 
nassus ; a dame whom the Graces have attired 
in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have arm- 
ed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the he- 
roine of the song, insists on the amendment ; 
and dispute her commands if you dare ! 

( O this is no my ain lassie, j9. 238.) 

Do you know that you have roused the tor- 
pidity of Clarke at last ? He has requested me 
to write three or four songs for him, which he 
is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet 
contains two songs for him, which please to 
present to my valued friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, hoth for your in- 
spection, and that you may copy the song, O 
bonnie was yon rosie brier. I do not know 
whether I am right ; but that song pleases me, 
and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's 
newly roused celestial spark will soon be smoth- 
ered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the 
song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of, 
J wish my love was in a mire ; and poor Er- 
skine's English lines may follow. 

I enclose you For a' that and a' that, which 
was raver in print : it is a much superior song 
to nitne. I have been told that it was com- 
posed by a lady. 



Still nobler wealth hast thou in 
The comforts of the mind t 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On corweious honour's part ; 

And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refined of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove ; 

And doubly were the poet blest 
These joys could he improve. 



Une bagaitUt de famitie. 



(iV^otc Sprfn(^ \as clad the grove in green, p. 

214.) 

^ O bonnie was yon rosy brier, p. 216.) 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last 
edition of my poems, presented to the lady, whom, 
in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with 
the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I 
have so often sung under the name of Chloris : 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend. 

Nor ttiou the gift refuse, 
Nor witn unwilling ear attend 
The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Mu«t bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lour ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower). 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more> 
Still much is left behind ; 



No. LXXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 179d 

This will be delivered to you by a Dr. Brian- 
ton, who has read your works, and pants foi 
the honour of your acquaint^.oce. I do no 
know the gentleman, but his friend, who applied 
to me for this introduction, being an excellent 
yourg man, I have ru) doubt he is worthy of all 
acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my 
mind feaisted, with your last packet — full of 
pleasant things indeed. What an imagination 
is yours ! It is superfluous to tell you that I 
am delighted with all the three songs, as well as 
with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris. 

1 am sorry you should be induced to alter 
O whistle anrl III come to ye, my lad, to th( 
prosaic line. Thy Jeany, will venture uV ye m^ 
lad. I must be permitted to say, that I do njt 
think the latter either reads or sings so well as 
the former. I wish, therefore, you would in uiy 
name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she 
be, to let the line remain unaltered.* 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce 
a few airs to be joined to your verses. Every 
body regrets his writing so very little, as every 
body acknowledges his ability to write well. 
Pray, was the resolution formed coolly before 
dinner, or was it a midnight vow made over a 
bowl of punch with the bard ? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what 
you have sent him. 

P. S. — The lady's For a that and a* that is 
sensible enough, but no more to be compared to 
yours than I to Hercules. 



• The Editor, who has heaiKl the hcroineof this song 
•ing it hersell in the very spirit of arch simplicity tha* 
it requires, ttiiiiks Mr. Thumson's petition unreuuii 
able — CukRiE. 





CORRESPONDENCE. 423 


No. LXXIX 


Such is the peculiarity of the rhyiHt of tnn 




air, that I find it impossible to make anothet 


THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 


stanza to suit it. 




I am at present quite occupied with the charm- 


ENGLISH SONG 


ing sensations of the toothache, so have not ft 




word 6o spare. 


7Viu>— •' Let me In this ae nlghc* 
Forlorn, ray love, no comfort near, 






Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 




Far, far from thee, the fate severe 


No. LXXXI. 


At which I most repine, love. 






MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 


O toeri thou, love, but near me. 




But near, near, near me ,- 


MY DEAR SIR, 3d June, 179S. 


How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 


Your English verses to Z,et me in this ae 


And mingle sighs with mine, love. 


night, ar. tender and beautiful ; and your bal- 




lad to the " Lothian lassie" is a master- piece 


Around me scowls a wintry sky, 


for its humour and naivete. The fragment for 


^ That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 


the Caledonian Hunt is quite suited to the ori- 


And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 


ginal measure of the air, and, as it plagues you 


Save in these arms of thine, love. 


so, the fragment must content it. I would ra- 


wert, §-c. 


ther, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian 




words, had it so pleased the poet ; but, never- 


Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. 


theless, for what we have received. Lord make 


To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 


us thankful ! 


Let me not break thy faithful heart, 




And say that fate is mine, love. 
wert, Sfc. 






But dreary tho* the moments fleet, 


No. Lxxxn. 


let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 




THE SAME TO THE SAME. 


Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 




O wert, §T. 


bth Feb. 1796. 




Hobby Burns are ye sleeping yet ? 


How do you like the foregoing ? I have 


Or are ye waukiug, 1 would wit f 


written it within this hour : so much for the 




speed of my Pegasus ; but what say you to his 
bottom t 


The pause you have made, my dear &ir, la 
awful ! Am 1 never to hear fioiu you again ? 




I know and I lament how much you have been 




afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health 
and spirits will now enable you to resume the 


1 


1 


pen, and delight us with your musings. I have 




still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I 


No. LXXX. 


wish " married to immortal verse." We have 




several true born Irishmen on the Scottish list ; 


THE SAME TO THE SAME. 


but they are now naturalized, and reckoned our 




own good subjects. Indeed we have none bet- 


( Last May a hraw w:oer cam down the long 


ter. I believe I before told you that 1 have been 


glen, p. 206. ) 


much urged by «ome friends to publish a col- 




lection of all our favourite airs and songs in oc« 


FRAGMENT. 


tavo, embellished with a number of etchings by 




our ingenious friend Allan ; what is your opi- 


7Vfi«— " The Caledonian Hunfs delighU* 


nion of this ? 


Why, why tell thy lover, 
Bliss he never must enjoy ; 






Why, why undeceive him, 




And give all his hopes the lie. 


No. LXXXIIL 


^ why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, 




Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 


THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 


Why, why wouldst thou, cruel. 




Wake thy lover from his dream. 


February, 1796. 


Makt thanks, my dear Sir. for your hand- 


• 


■ume, elegant present to Mrs. B and fot 


1 



424 



BURNS' WORKS. 



my remaining toI. of P. Pndar.— Peter is a 
delight'ful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. 
I am much pleased with your idea of publish- 
ing a collection of our longs in octavo with 
etchings. I am extremely willing to lend eve- 
ry assistance in my power. The Irish airs I 
shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding 
rerses for. 

I have already, you know, equipt three with 
words, and the other day I strung up a kind of 
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I 
admire much. 

{Hey for a lass wi' a tocher, p. 238.) 

If this will do, you have now four of my 
iiish engagement. In ray by-past songs, I dis- 
like one thing ; the name Chloris — I meant it 
as the fictitious name of a certain lady ; but, 
on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to 
have a Gr<'ek appellation to a Scottish pastoral 
ballad. — Of this, and some things else, in my 
next : I have more ainendments to propose. — 
What you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" 
M just : they cannot enter into an elegant de- 
scription of beauty. Of this also again — God 
bkwB vuu ! * 



No. LXXXIV. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Your lley for a lass wT a tocher, is a most 
eicellent song, and with you the subject is 
Boniething new indeed. It is tl»e first time I have 
■een vou debasing the god of soft desire, into an 
•mateur of acres and guineas. — 

I am happy to find yj approve of my pro- 
posed octavo edition Allan has designed and 
etched aliunt twenty plates, and I am to have 
my choice of tliem for that work. Indepen- 
dently of the llogarthian humour with which 
they abound, they exhibit the character and 
cobtnnie of the Scottish peasantry with inimi- 
table felicity. In this respect, he himself siys, 
they will forr exceed the aquatinta plates he did 
for the Gentle Shepherd, because in the etching 
he sees clearly what he is doing, but not so 
with the aquatinta, which he could not manage 
to his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more 
charactcrii^tic and natural than the Scottish 
figures in those etchings. 



• Our Poet never e«j>lAine<l what name he would 
tev« suiMUtutvtt toi C'hiuiu.— JVo/tf f^ JUt. Thointon. 



Na. LXXXV. 

' THE POET TO MR. THOMSON- 

April, 1796. 
Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will b» 
some time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By 
Babel streams I have sat and wept," almost ever 
since I wrote you last: I have only known ex- 
istence by the pressure of the heavy hand ol 
sickness, and have counted time by the reper- 
cussions of paiu ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever 
have formed to me a terrible combination. 1 
close my eyes in misery, and open them with- 
out hope. I look on the vernal day, and say, 
with poor Ferguson— 

" Say wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven 
" Light to the comfortless and wretched given?"" 

'!'^his will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hy- 
slop landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which 
for tnese many years has been my hoivff, and 
where our friend Clarke and I have had many 
a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with 
Mr. Allan's etchings. Woo'd and married 
and a* is admirable ! The grouping is beyond 
all praise. The expression of the figures, con- 
formable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely 
faultless perfection. I next admire T^urwm- 
spikc. What I like least is, Jenny said tc 
Jncky. Besides the female being in her ap- 
pearance if y(m take her stoop- 
ing into the account, she is at least two inches 
taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sin- 
cerely sympathize with him ! Happy I ana 
to think that he yet has a well-grounded 
hope of health and enjoyment in this world. 
As for me— but that is a * ' * * sub- 
ject ! 



No LXXXVI. 
MR. THOMSON TO«THE POET 

ith May, 1796. 

I NEED not tell you, my good Sir, what con 
cern the receipt of your last gave me, and how 
much I sympathize in your sufferings. But 
do not, I beseech you, g.ve yourself up to de- 
spondency, nor speak the language of de- 
spair. The vigour of your constitution I trust 
will soon set you on your feet again ; and then 
it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom and 
the necessity of taking due care of a life so va- 
luable to your family, to your friends, and tc 
the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable 
accounts of your convaiescence, and returning 
good spirits, I remain, witli sincere regard 
yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop I doubt not delivered ths 
gold settl to you in good cunditiua. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



425 



No. LXXXVII. 
THE PJET TO MR. THOMSON. 

KT nEAR SIR, 

I ONCE mentioned to yoi. an air which I have 
ODg julinircd — Here* x a health ^» them that's 
iiK'rt, hineij, but 1 forget if you took any notice 
of it. I have just been trying to suit it with 
verses ; and I beg leave to reconmiend the an- 
te your attention once more. 1 have only be- 
gun it. 



Uere*s a health to ane I lo'e dear, p. 204.) 



No. LXXXVIII. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a 
voun? fellow of uncommon merit. As he will 
lie a iLiy or two in town, you will have leisure, 
if you chooKe. to write me by him ; and if you 
havM a spure half hour to spend with him, I 
ihall place your kindness to my account. I 
hav? no copies of the songs I have sent you, 
and I have taken a fancy to review them all, 
and pr»ssibly may mend some of them ; so when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank you for 
either the originals, or copies. * I had rather 
be the author of five well-written songs than of 
ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the ge- 
nial influence of the approaching eumnier will 
set n»e to rights, 'but as yet I cannot boast of 
returning health. I have now reason to believe 
that uiy complaint is a flying gout : a sad busi- 
•css ! 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and re- 
■lemlier me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should 
Ike much to hear from you. 



No. LXXXIX. 

THE ^AME TO THE SAME. 

Brow, on the Solway frith, ^2th Jur,, 1796. 

AfTER all my boasted independence, curst 
aecessity compels me to implore ycu for five 



• It It oeHlrss to say, that thb revisal Burua did 
«it k-ve Ui pf-form. 



pounrtN. A cruel of a laberdasher. 

to whom 1 owe an account, taking it into hii 
head that I am dying, has commenced a pro- 
cess, and will intallably put me into jail. Do, 
for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by 
return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, 
but the horrors of a jail have made me hait dis- 
I tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; for, 
upon returning health, I hereby promise and en. 
gage to furnish you with five pounds worth (A 
the neatest song genius you have seen. I tried 
my hand on ♦' Rothiemun ,ie" this morning 
The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible 
to infuse much genius into the lines; they are 
on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! 

{Fairest maid on I^uvnn Banks, p. 200."* 



No. XC. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 

MY DEAR SIR, I4rth July, 1796. 

Ever since I received your melancholy letter 
by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in 
what manner I could endeavour to alleviate 
your sufferings. Again and again I thought of 
a pecuniary offer, but the recollection of one of 
your letters on this subject, and the fear of of 
fending your independent spirit, checked ray re 
solution. I thank you heartily, therefore, for 
the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and 
with great pleasure enclose a draft for the v«ry 
sum I proposed sending. Would I were the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day, 
for your sake. 

Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you 
to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much 
trouble to you in the present state of yoor 
health, some literary friend might be found 
here, who would select and arrange from youi 
manuscripts, and take upon him the task ol 
Editor. In the meantime it could be advcrtis*- 
ed to be published by subscription. Do not 
shun this mode of obtaining the value of your 
labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by 
subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, 
and do not reckon me intrusive wi«-h my ad- 
vice. You are too well conviuced of the re- 
spect and friendship I bear you, to impute any 
thing j say to an unworthy motive. Yours 
faithfully. 

The verses to " Rotniemurchie" will answei 
finely. I am Lappy to see yuu can atill tuM 
your iyre 



GLOSSARY. 


The ch and gh have drays the guttural sound. The sound of the E: glish diphthong oo, a 
commonly spelled cu. The French m, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, 
is marked oo^ or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, 


or followed by an e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the broad English 
a in wall. The Scottish diphthong «, always, and ^a, very often, sound like the French € 
masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey., sounds like the Latin ei. 


Ava, at all 


"■ Awa', away 
A', All Awfu', awful 


Aback, away, aloot Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c 


Abeigh, at a shy distance Awnie, bearded 


A boon, above, up Ayont, beyond 


A bread, abroad, in sight | 


A breed, in breadth -, 


Addle, putrid water, &c. " 


Ae, one. i BA% hall 


Alf, off: Affloof, unpremeditated 


Backets, ash boards 


Afore, before 


Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning 


Aft, oft, ' Uack, returning 


Aften, often , Bad, did bid 


Agley, off the right line ; wrong i Baide, endured, did stay 


Ablins, perhaps 


Baggie, the belly 


Ain, own 


Bainie, having large bones, stout 


Airle-penny, Airles, earnest money 


Bairn, a child 


Aim, iron 


Bairntime, a family of children, a brood 


Aith, an oath 


Baith, both 


Aits, oats 


Ban, to swear 


Aiver, an old horse 


Bane, bone 


Aizle, a hot cinder 


Bang, to beat ; to strive 


A lake, alas 


Bardie, diminutive of bard 


Alane, alone 


Barefit, barefooted 


Akwart, awkward 


Barmie, of, or like barm 


Apnaist, almost 


Batch, a crew» a gang 


Aniang, among 


Batts, bots 


An', and ; if 


Baudrons, a cat 


Ance, once 


Bauld, bold 


Ane, one; and ; Bawk, bank I 


Anent, over against 
Anither, another 


Baws'nt, having a white stripe down the fact 


Be, to let be ; to give over ; to cease 


Ase, ashes 


Bear, barley 


Asklent, asquint; aslant 


Beastie, diminutive of beast 


Asteer, abroad ; stirring 


Beet, to add fuel to fire 


Athart, athwart 


Beld, bald 


Aught, possession ; as. In a' my aught, in all 


Belyve, by and by 


my possession 


Ben, into the spence or parlour; a spence 


Auld lang syne, olden time, days of other 


Benlomond, a noted mountain in Dumbartsik 


years 


shire 


Auld, old 


Bethankit, grace after meat 
Beuk, a book 


Aiildfarran, or, auld farrant, sagacious, cun- 


ning, prudent 


Bicker, ;» kind of wooden dish ; a shwt not 


(1 



GLOSSARY. 



Ble, or Bield shelter 

Bien, wealthy, plentiful 

Big to ouild 

I5*is;^gin, building ; a house 

Biggit, built 

Bill, a bull 

Billie, a brother ; a young fellow 

Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c. 

Birk, birch 

Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood -shaw, a small 

wood. 
Birkie, a clever fellow 
Birring, tlie noise of partridges, &c. when they 

spring 
Bit, crisis, nick of time 
Bizz, 3 bustle, to buzz 

Blastie, a sliri veiled dwarf; a term of contempt 
Blastit, blasted 
Blate, bashful, sheepish 
Blather, bladder 

Bladd, a flat piece of any thing; to slap 
Blaw, to blow, to boast 
Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum 
Bleerit and blin', bleared and blind 
Bleezing, blazing 
Blelium, an idle talking fellow 
Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense 
Bleth'rin', talking idly 
Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to look 

kindly ; to shine by fits 
Blinker, a term of contempt 
Blinkin, smirking 

Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get an- 
nually, on the king's birth-dajr, a blue cloak 

or gown, with a badge 
Bluid, blood 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person 
Blype, a shred, a large piece 
Bock, to vomit, to gush intermittently 
Bocked, gushed, vomited 
Bodle, a small gold coin 
Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins 
Bonnie or bonny, handsome, beautiful 
Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a 

small jannock, or loaf made of oat meal 
Boord, a board 
Boortree, tlie shrub elder; planted much of 

old in hedges of barn-yards, &c. 
Boost, behaved, must needs 
Bore, a hole in the wall 
Botch, an angry tumotw 
Bousing, drinkmg 
Bow -kail, cabbage 
Bowt, bended, crooked 
Brackens, fern 
Brae, a declivity ; a precipiece ; the dope of a 

hill 
Braid," broad 

Bramdg't, reeled forward 
Braik, a kind of harrow 
Braindge, to run rashly forward 
Brak, broke, made insolvent 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for l&orscs 
Biiash, a mdden illness 
Brats, coarse clothes, rags. Sec. 
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury 
Braw, fine, handsome 

Brawly, or brawJie, very well ! finelj ; heartiljr 
Braxie, a morbid sheep 
Breastie, diminutive of breast 
Breastit, did spring up or forward 
Breckan, fern 

(2) 



Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible speD 

Breeks, breeches 

Brent, smooth 

Brewin*, brewing 

Brie, juice, liquid 

Brig, a bridge 

Brunstane, brimstone 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom 

Brither, a brother 

Brock, a badger 

Brogue, a hum ; a trick 

Broo, broth ; a trick 

Broose, broth ; a race at country weddings^ 

who shall first reach the bridegrooms's house 

on returning from church 
Browster-wives, ale-house wives 
Brugh, a burgh 
Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion 
Brunt, did burn, burnt 
Brust, to burst ; burst 
Buchan-buUers, the boiling of the sea among 

the rocks of Buchan 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia 
Bught, a pen 
Bughtin-time, the time of collecting the sheep 

in the pens to be milked 
Buirdly, stout made ; broad made 
Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in tfai 

summer evenings 
Bumming, humming as bees 
Bummle, to blunder 
Bummler, a blunderer 
Bunker, a window-seat 
Burdies, diminutive of birds 
Bure, did bear 
Burn, water, a rivulet 
Buinewin, i. e. burn the wind, a bKcksmidl 
Burnie, diminutive of burn 
Buskie, bushy 
Buskit, dressed 
Busks, dresses 
Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle 
Buss, shelter 
But, bot, with ; without 
But an^ben, the country kitchen and parloof 
By himsel, lunatic, distracted 
Byke, a bee-hive 
Byre, a cow-stable; a sheep-pen 



CA , to call, to name ; to drive 

Ca*t, or ca'd, called, driven ; calved 

Cadger, a carrier 

Cadie, or Caddie, a person • a young fellow 

CafF, chafl' 

Caird, a tinker 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones 

Calf- ward, a small enclosure for calves 

Callan, a boy 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing 

Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild ; dexterow 

Cannilie, dexterously; gently 

Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry 

Cantrip, a charm, a spell 

Cape-stane, cope-stone ; key -stone. 

Careerin, cheerfully 

Carl, an old man 

Carlin, a stout old woman 

Cartes, cards 

Caudron, a cauldron 

Cauk an* keel, chalk and red d&r 



GLOSSARY. 



Cauld, cold 

Caup, a wooden drinking vesseL 

Cesses, taxes 

Chanter, a part of a bagpipe 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow 

Chaup. a stroke, a blow 

Cheekit, cheeked 

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp 

Chiel. or cheel, a young fellow 

Chimla, or cliimlie, a fire-grate, a fire-place 

Chinila lug, tne fireside 

Chittering. shivering, trembling 

Chockin', choking 

Chow, to chew ; Cheek for chow, side by side 

Chuffie, fat-faced 

Clachan, a small village about a church; a 
hamlet 

Claise, or claes, clothe« 

Claith, cloth 

Clai thing, clothing 

Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking sense 

Clap, clapper of a mill 

Clarkit, wrote 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day 

Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story 

Claught, snatched at, laid hold of 

Claut, to clean ; to scrape 

Clauted, scraped 

Clavers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scratch 

Cleed, to clothe 

deeds, clotlies 

Cleekit, having caught 

Clinkin, jerking ; clinking 

Clin kum bell, he who rings the church-bell 

Clips, shears 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation 

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle 

Clockin, hatching 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c 

C;lootie, an old name for the Devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow 

Cluds, clouds 

Coaxin, wheedling 

Coble, a fishing boat 

Cockernony, a lock of hair tied upon a girlV 

head ; a cap 
Cnft. bought 
Cog, a wooden dish 

Coggie, diminutive of cog 
Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so 
called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, 
a Pictish monarch 
Collie, a general and sometimes a particular 

name for country curs 
Collieshangie, quarrelling, an uproar 
Commaun, command 
Cood, the cud 

Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny 
Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fitt 
Coost, dia cast 
Coot, the ankle or foot 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish: — also, those 
fowls whose legs are clad with feathers are 
said to be cootie 
Corbies, a species of the crow 
Core, corps ; party ; clan 
Com't, fed with oats 
Cotier, the inhabitani of a coUhouse, or cot. 

tager 
Coutnie, kind, <ing 



Cove, a cav«< 

Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop; M^tu 
a branch of furze, broom, Ac 

Cowp, tc barter; t/» tumble over; a gang 

Cowpit, tumbled 

Cowrin', cowen.ig 

Cowt, a colt 

(.'ozie, snug 

Cozily, snugly 

Crabbit, crabbed, fretful 

Crack, conversation ; to convene 

Crackin', conversing 

Craft, or croft, a field near a house (in old 
husbandry) 

Craiks, cries or calls incessantly ; a bird 

Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, dog 
grel verses 

Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel 

Crankous, fretful, captious 

Cranreuch, the hoar frost 

Crap, a crop ; to crop 

Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook 

Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a creOk, 
to be crazed ; to be fascinated 

Creepie-stool, the same as cutty-sto(J 

Creeshie, greasy 

Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove 

Croon, a hollow and continued moan ; to make 
a noise like the continued roar of a bull ; tc 
hum a tune 

Crooning, humming 

Crouchie, crook-backed 

Croose, cheerful ; courageous 

Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously 

Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and boil- 
ed water, sometimes from the broth of beef, 
mutton, &c. 

Crowdie-time, breakfast time 

Crowlin', crawling 

Crummock, a cow with crooked horns 

Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread 

Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel 

Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny 

Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head 

Curchie, a courtesy 

Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practis- 
ed in Scotland, called curlinjtf 

Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally in 
ringlets 

Curling, a well known game on the ice 

Curniurring, murmuring ; a slight rumbling 
noise 

Curpin, the crupper 

Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon 
utty, short" a spoon broken in the middle - 

V utty -stool, the stool of repentance 



DADDIE, a father 

Daffin, merriment ; foolishness 

Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish 

Daimen, rare, now and then ; |daimen.ickei 

an ear of corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreeable 
Daise, daez, to stupify 
Dales, plains, valleys 
Darkliws, darkling 
Daud, to thrash, to abuse 
Daur, to dare 
Daurt, darn* 



GLOSSARY. 



DauTg, or daurk, a day*«! labour 

Davoc, David 

Dawd, a large piece 

Dawtit, or dawtet, fondled, caressed 

Dearies, diminutive of dears 

l)earthfu% dear 

Deave, to deafen 

Deil-ma-care I no matter ! for all that ! 

Deleerit, delirious 

Oescrive, to describe 

Dight, to wip. ; to clean com from chaff 

Dight, cleaned i '>m chaff 

Ding, to worst, tw i,)ush 

Dink, neat, tidy, trjii 

Dinna, do not 

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain 

Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen 

Doited, stupiJied, hebetated 

Dolt, stupihed, crazed 

Donsie, unlucky 

Dool, sorrow ; to sing dool, to lament, to 

mourn 
Doos, doves 
Dorty, saucy, nice 

Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent 
Doucely, soberly, prudently 
Dought, was or were able 
Doup, backside 

Doup-skel|>er, one that strikes the tail 
Dour and din, sullen and shallow 
Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn 
Dow, am or are able, can 
Dowff, pithless, wanting force 
Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c. half a- 

sleep 
Downa, am or are not able, cannot 
Doylt, stupid 

Dozent, stupified, impotent 
Drap, a drop ; to drop 
Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle among 

wet, &c. 
Drapping, dropping. 

Draunting, drawling ; of a slow enunciation 
Dreep, to ooze, to drop 
Dreigh, tedious, long about it 
Dribble, drizzling; slaver 
Drift, a drove 
Droddum, the breech 
Drone, part of a bagpipe 
Droop-runipl't, that droops at the crupper 
Droukit, wet 
Drounting, drawling 
Drouth, thirst, drought 
Dfucken, drunken 
Drumly, muddy 
Drummock, meal and water nrx'xed in a n ^ 

state 
Drunt, pet, sour humour 
Dub, a small pond 
Duds, rags, clothes 
DuHdie, ragged 

Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven 
Dunted, beaten, boxed 
Dush, to push as a ram, &c. 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c 



E'E, the eye 

E'en the eyes 
Keening, evening 



Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits 

Eild, old age 

Elbuck, the elbow 

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful 

Eller, an elder, or church offices 

En', end 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh, enough 

Especial, especially 

Ettle, to try, to attempt 

Eydent, diligent 



FA', fall ; lot ; to fall 

Fa's does fall ; water-falla 

Faddom't, fathomed 

Fae, a foe 

Feam, foam 

Faiket, unknown 

Fairin', a fairing ; a present 

Fallow, fellow 

Fand, did find 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, && 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble, to care fof 

Fasht, troubled 

Fasteren-e'cn, Fasten *s Even 

Fauld, a fold ; to fold 

Faulding, folding 

Faut, fault 

Faute, want, lack 

Fawsont, decent, seemly 

Feal, a field ; smooth 

Fearfu', frightful 

Feart, frighted 

Feat, neat, spruce 

Fecht, to fight 

Fechtin', fighting 

Feck, many, plenty 

Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleeves 

Feckfu', large, brawny, stout 

Feckless, puny, weak, silly 

Feckly, weakly 

Feg, a fig 

Feide, feud, enmity 

Feinie, stout, vigorous, healthy 

Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately un* 

der the skin ; a field pretty level, on the aids 

or top of a hill 
Fen, successful struggle ; fight 
Fend, to live comfortably 
Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder ; a wonder ; a term 

of contempt 
Fetch, to pull by fits 
Fetch't, pulled intermittently 
Fidge, to fidget 
Fiei, soft, smooth 
Fient, fiend, a petty oath 
Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother : a friend 
Fissle, to make a rustling noise ; to fiidget ; t 

bustle 
Fit, a fbot 
Fittie-lan*, the nearer horse of the hindmos* 

pair in the plough 
Fizz, to make a hissing noise, like fermentar 

tion 
Flainen, flannel 

Fleech. to supplicate in a flattering manner 
Fleech'd, supplicated 
Fleechin', supplicating 
Fleesh, a fleece 



(4) 



GLOSSARY. 



Flee, a kick, a random stroke 

Flether, to decoy by fair words 

Fletherin', flattering 

Fley, to scare, to frighten 

Flitcher, to flutter, as young nestlings when 

their dam approaches 
Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters 
Fhngin'-tree, a piece of timber hung by way 

of partition between two horses in a stable ; 

a flail 
Flisk, to fret at the yoke 
Flisket, fretttMl 
I Flitter, to vibratt like the win 8 of small 

birds 
Flittering, flattering, vibrciting 
Flunkie, a servant in livery 
Fodgel, s<juat and plump 
Fo«ird, a ford 
Forbears, forefathers 
Forbye, besi<les 

Forfairn, distressed; worn out, jaded 
Forfoughten, fatigued 
Forgather, to meet, to encounter with 
Forgie. to forgive 
Forjesket, jaded with fatigue 
Fother, fodder 
Fou, full ; drunk 
Foughten, troubled, harassed 
Fouih, plenty, enough, or more than enough 
Fow, a bushel. &c. ; also a pitch-fork 
Frae, from ; oflf* 
Franmiii, strange, estranged from, at enmity 

with 
Freath. froth 
Fnen", friend 
Fu\ full 

Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &c. 
Futt". to blow intermittently 
Fufl"t, did blow 
Funnie, full of merriment 
Fur, a furrow 
Furm, a form, bench 
Fyke, trifling cares; to piddle, to be in a fuss 

about trifles 
Fyle, U) soil, to dirty 
Fyl't, soiled, dirtied 

G 

G A B, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly 

Gaberlunzie, an old man 

Gadsman, aploughboy, the boy that drives the 

horses in the plough 
Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or gane, gone; 

gaun, going 
Gaet, or gate, way, manner; road 
Gairs, triangular pieces of clotli sewed on the 

bottom of a gown, &.c. 
Gang, to go, to walk 
Gar, to make, to force to 
Gar*t, forced to 
Garten, a garter 

Gash, wise, sagacious; talkative; to ff inverse 
Gathin', conversing 
Gaucy, jolly, large 
Gaud, a plough 

Gear, ricnes ; goods of any kind 
Geek, to toss the head in wantonness Di scorn 
Ged, a pike 

Gentles, great folks, gentry 
Genty, elegantly formed, nea 
Geordie, a guinea 

(5) 



a young one 
Ghaist, a ghost 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; gien, given 
Giftie, diminutive of gift 
Oiglets, playful girls 
(iiliie, diminutive of g-ill 
Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy on 

girl, a romping Ltd, a hoiden 
Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old 
Gin, if; against 
Gipsey, a young girl 
Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, 

agony, &c. 
Girning, grinning 
G''.zz, a periwig 
Glaiket, inattentive, foolish 
(ilaive, a sword 

Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romping 
(ilaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass 
Glaum, to snatch greedily 
(ilaum'd, aimed, s-natched 
Gleck, sharp, ready 
Gleg, sharp, ready 
Gleib, glebe 

i Glen, a dale, a deep valley 
Gley, a squint ; to squint ; a-gley, off at a fad% 

wrong 
Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech 
Glint, to peep 
Glinted, peeped 
Glintin', peeping 
Gloamin', the twihght 
Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look 
Glowred, looked, stared 
Glunsh, a frown, a sour look 
Goavan, looking round with a strange, inquir* 

ing gaze ; staring stupidly 
Gowan, the flower of the wild daisy, hawk- 
weed, &c. 
Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies 
Gowd, gold 
GowfF, the game of golf; to strike as the bat 

does the ball at golf 
Gowft'M, struck 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt 
Gowl, to howl 

Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan 
GrainM and grunted, groaned and grunted 
Graining, groaning 
Graip, a pionged instrument used for cleaning 

stables 
Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear 
Grannie, grandmother 
Grape, to grope 
Grapit, groped 
Grat, wept, shed tears 
Great, intimate, familiar 
Grce, to ;igree ; to bear the gree, to be dedd> 

edly victor ♦ 

Oree't, tgreed 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep 
(xreetin', crying, weeping 
Grippet, catched, seized 
(iroat, to get the whistle of one's groit, 10 plaj 

a losing game 
Grousonie, loathsomely grim 
Grozet, a gooseberry 
(irumph, a grunt; to grunt 
Grumphie, a sow 
(*run', ground 
Orunstane, a grindstone 
Oruntle, the phiz ; a grunting rout 



GLOSSARY 



Grunzie, mouth 
i Grushie, thick ; of tbviving growth 

Gude, the Supreme Being good 
i j Gutd, good 

. j Guid-niornin*, good morrow 
i j Guid-e'en, good evening 

Guidman and guidwife, the mastr r and mis- 
tress of the house ; young guidman, a man 
newly married 

Guid-willie, Hberal ; cordial 

Guidfather, guidmother, father-in-law, and 
mother-in-law 

Gully, or guUie, a large knife 

Gumlie, muddy 

Gusty, tasteful 

H 

HA\ haU 

Ha'-Bible, the great bible that lies in the 
hall 

Hae, to have 

Haen, had, the participle 

Haet, tint haet, a petty oath of negation ; no- 
thi:;g 

Haltet, the temple, the side of the head 

Hafiiins, nearly half, partly 

Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the sto- 
mach of a cow or sheep 

Hain, to spare, to save 

Hain'd, spared 

H^irst, harvest 

Haith, a petty oath 

Haivers, nonsense, speaking without thought 

Hal', or hald, an abiding place 

Hale, whole, tight, healthy 
' Haly, holy 
' 1 Hame, home 

; ] Hallun, a particular partition-wall in a cot- 
', \ tage. or more properly a seat of turf at the 

outside 

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st of October 

Hamely, homely, affable 

Han', or haun', hand 
; j Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c. to 

wrap, to cover ; to hop 
! Happer, a hopper 

Happin', hopping 

Hap step an' loup, hop skip and leap 
! Harkit, hearkened 
j I Harn, very coarse linen ♦ 
I i Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to dresa 
j nor act wuh propriety 

I I Hastit, hastened 
j : Ilaud, to hold 

i ! Haughs, low lying, rich lunds ; valleys 
I ' Haurl, to drag; to peel 
i Haurlin, peelii>g 

j ! Haverel, a half witted person ; half witted 
i S Havins, good manners, decorum^ good*Ben«« 
j I Hawkie, a cow, properly one witii a white fact 
I } Heapit, heaped 
; i Healsome, healthful, wholeMiaic 
i ! Hearse, hoarse 
I Hear't, hear it 
\ I Heather, heath 
; j Hech ! oh ! strange! 

Hecht, promised ; to foretell something that ii 
j I to be got or given ; foretold ; the dung fore- 

j . told ; offered 

I I Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a nunxber 

II (6> 



of sliarp pms, used in dressing hemp,flax 

&.C. 

Heeze, to elevate, to raise 

Helm, the rudder or helm 

Herd, to tt'nd Hocks ; one who tends flocks 

Herrin, a herring 

Herry, to plunder ; most properly to plundei 
birds' nests 

Herryment, plundering, devastation 

Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, of anf 
sort 

Flet, hot 

Heugh, a crag, a coalpit 

Hilcn, a hobble; to halt 

Hilchin, haltini; 

H -.nisei, himself 

Hin^'y, honey 

Hing. to hang 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to creep 

Hirsel, so many cattle as one person can attend 

llastie, dry ; cnapped; barren 

Hitch, a loop, a knot 

Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl 

Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman rid- 
ing on a cart-horse ; humble 

Hog-score, a kiiid of distance-line, in curKng, 
drawn across the rink 

Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play, by just 
ling with the shoulder ; to justle 

Hool, outer skin or case, a nut-shell ; a peas- 
cod 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely 

Hoolie ! take leisure, stop 

Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard 

Hoordit, hoarded 

Horn, a spoon made of horn 

Homie, one of the many names of the devil 

Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough 

Hostin', coughing 

Hosts, coughs 

Hotch'd, turn'd topsyturvy ; blended, mixed 

Houghmagandie, fornication 

Houict, an owl 

Housie, diminutive of house 

H ove, to heave, to swell 

Hoved, heaved, swelled 

Howdie, a midwife 

Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell 

Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a 
horse, &c. 

Howff', a tippling house ; a house of resorl 

Howk, to dig 

lluwkit, digged 

How kin, digging 

Howlet, an owl 

Hoy, to urge 

IJoy't, ur^d 

Hoyse, to pul/ upwards 

Hoyte, to amble crazily 

liughoc, diminutive ot Hugh 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog 

llurdies, the loins : the sruppei 

Uu&hion, a cushion 



r, in 

Icker, an ear of com 

ler-oe, a great-grandchild 

Ilk, or ilka, each, every 

lU-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly 

iiiguie, genius, ingenuity ' 





GLOSSARY. 


Ingle, fir« ; fire-place 


Kyle, a district in Ayrshire 


Ise, I shall or will 


Kyte, the belly 


Ither, ctlier ; one another 


Kytiie^ to discover ; to show one's sell 


J 

(A D. jade ; also a familiar ti:rm among coun- 


L 

LADDIE, diminutive of lad 


try folks for a guUiy young girl 
Uuk, to dally, to trifle 
.fuukin', trifling, dallying 


Laggen, the angle between die side and oou 


tom of a wooden dish 


Laigh, low 


Jaup. a jerk of water ; to jerk as agitated wa- 


Lairing, wading, and sir.King in snow, mad. 


ter. 


&c. 


Jaw, coarse raillery ; to pour out ; to shut, to 


Laith, loath 


jerk as water 


liaithfu', bashful, sheepish 


Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short grown 


Lallans, the Scottish dialect of the EngUsh 


Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl 


language 


Jimp, to jump; slender in the waist; hand- 


Lambie, diminutive of lamb 


some 


Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a limpit 


Jiinps, easy stays 


Lan\ land ; estate 


Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner ; a sudden 


Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, &c. mysell 


turning ; a corner 


alone, &c. 


linker, that turns quickly ; a gay sprightly 


Lanely, lonely 


girl ; a wag 


Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, to weary 


Jmkm', dodging 


Lap, did leap 


Jirk, a jerk 


Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others 


Jocteleg, a kind of knife 


Laverock, the lark 


Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head 


Lawin, shot, reckoning, bill 


Jow, to jow. a verb which includes both the 


Lawlan', lowland 


swinL;ing motion and pealing sound of a 


Lea'e, to leave 


large beU 


Leal, loyal, true, faithful 


Jundie, to justle 


Lea-rig, grassy ridge 




Lear, (pronounced lare), learning 


K 


Lee-lang, live-long 




Leesome, pleasant 


KAE, adaw 


Leeze-me, a | hrase of congratulatory endear- 


Kail, colewort ; a k.nd of broth 


ment; 1 am happy in thee, or proud (M 


Kail-runt, the stem of colewort 


thee 


Kain, fowls, &c paid as rent by a fanner 


Leister, a three-prong'd dart for striking tish 
Leudi, did laugh 
Leuk, a look ; to look 


Kebbuck, a cheese 


Keckle, to giggle ; to titter 


Keek, a peep, *o peep 


Libbet, gelded 


Keljnes, a sort ;f mischievous spirits, said to 


Lift, the sky 


haunt fords a.ul ferries at night, especially 


Lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at 


in storms 


Lilt, a ballad ; a tune; to sing 


Ken, to know ; nend or kenn'd, knew 


liinmier, a kept mistress, a strumpet 


Kenniii, a small matter 


Liinp't, limped, hobbled 


Kenspeckle, well known, easily known 


Link, to trip along 


Ket, matted, hairy , a fleece of wool 


Linkin', tripping 


Kilt; to truss up the clothes 


Linn, a waterfall ; a precipiece 


Kiinmer, a young girl, a gossip 


Lint, flax 


Kin, kindred ; kin', kind, adj. 


Lint i' the bell, flax in flower 


King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of 


Lintwhite, a linnet 


an ox, &C. 


liOan, or loanin', the place of milking 


Kintra, country 


Loof, the palm of the har d 
Lout, did let 


Kintra cooser, country stallion 


Kirn, the harvest suoper ; a churn 


Looves, plural of loof 


Kirsen, to christen, or baptize 


lioun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of 


Kist. a chest ; a shop counter 

Kitclien, any thing that eats with bread ; to 


easy virtue 


Loup, jump, leap 


serve for soup, gravy, &c. 


Lowe, a flame 


Kith, kindred 


liowin', flaming 

lx>wrie, abbreviation of Lawrence 


Kiirle, to tiikl£ ; tickliih; lively^ apt 


Kit'.lin, a young cat 
Kiuttie. to cuddle 


Ixtwse, to loose 


Ixjws'd, loosed 


Kiuiilin, cuddling 


Lug, the ear ; a handle 


Knaggie, hke knags, or point* of roclu 


Lugget, liaving a handle 


Knap, to stnkc smaiily, a smart blow 


Kna})T)in. hammer, a hammer used tor break- 


Lum, the chminey 


ing stones 


Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &a 


Knowe, a small round hillock 


Lunt^ a column of smoke ; to smoke 


Knurl, a dwarf 


Lunun', smoking 

Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray 


Kye, ODws 


(7> 




. 





GLOSSARY. 



M AE, more 

Mair, more 

IMaist, most, almost 

Maisily, moj^tly 

Mak, to make 

IMakin*, making 

Mailen, a farm 

Mallie, Molly 

Mang, among 

Manse, the parsonage house, where the minis- 
ter lives 

Manteele, a mantle 

Mark, marks. (This and several other nouns 
which in English require an s to form the 
plural, are in Scotch, like the words sheep, 
deer, the same in both numbers.) 

Marled, variegated ; spotted 

Mar's year, the year 1715 

Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn 

Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 

JNJaskin-pat, a tea-pot 

JMaud, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &c 

Maukin, a hare 

Maun, must 

Mavis, the thrush 

]\law, to mow 

Mawin', mowing 

Meere, a mare 

Meikle, meickle, much 

Melancholious, mournful 

M elder, corn, or grain of any kind, sent to 
the mill to be ground 

31 ell, to meddle. Also a mallet for pounding 
barley in a stone trough 

Melvie, to soil with meaJ 

Men', to mend 

Mense, good manners, decorum 

Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudeni 

Messin, a small dog 

Midden, a dunghill 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dung- 
hill 

Mim, prim, affectedly meek 

Min', mind; resemblance 

Mind't, mind it; resolved, intending 

Minnie, mother, dam 

Mirk, mirkest, dark, darkest 

Misca', to abuse, to call names 

Misca'd, abused 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly 

ftlisteuk, mistook 

Mither, a mother 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed 

Moistify, to moifc^en 

Mony, or monie, many 

Mools, dust, earth, the earth of the grare ; to 
rake i' the mools ; to lay in the dust 

Moop, to nibble as a sheep 

M oorlan*, of or belonging to moors 

Morn, the next day, to-morrow 

Mou, the mouth 

ftloudiwort, a mole 

Mousie, diminutive of mouse 

Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much 

Musie, diminutive of muse 

Muslin-kail, broth, composed simply of water, 
shelled barley, and greens 

Mutchkin, an English pin 

Wysel, m>self 

8) 



N 

NA, no, not, nc« 

Nae, no, not any 

Naething, or naithing, nothing 

Naig, a norse 

Nane, none 

Nappy, ale : to be tipsy 

Negleckit, neglected 

Neuk, a nook 

Niest, next 

Nieve, the fist 

Nievefu', handful 

Niffer, an exchange ; to exchange, to bATMi 

Niger, a negro 

Nine-tail'd-cat, a hangman's whip 

Nit, a nut 

Norland, of or belonging to the north 

Notic't, noticed 

Nowte, black cattle 



(V, of 

( )chils, name of a range of mountains in Clack 

niannon and Kinross-shires 
() haith, O faith ! an oatn 
Ony, or onie, any 
Or, is often used for ere, before 
Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can be 

spared 
O't, ofit 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping 
Oursel', or oursels, ourselves 
Outlers, cattle not housed 
Owre, over ; too 
Owre-hip, a way of fetching a blow with the 

hammer over the arm 



PA OK, intimate, familiar; twelve stone ot 
wool 

Painch, paunch 

Paitnck, a partridge 

Pang, to cram 

Parle, speech 

Parritch, an oatmeal puddingy a well-knowa 
Scotch dish 

Pat, did put ; a pot 

Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff 

Paughty, proud, haughty 

Pauky, or pawkie, cunnmg, sly 

Pay't, paid ; beat 

Pcch, to fetch the breath short, as in an asth- 
ma 

Pechan, the crop, the stomach 

Peehn' peeling, the rind of fruit 

Pet, a u "mesticated sheep, &c. 

Pettle, to cherish ; a plough-stafF 

Philabegs, short petticoats worn by the High* 
landmen 

Phraise, fair speehes, flattery ; to flatter 

Phraisin', flattery 

Pibroch, Highland war music adapted tc the 
bagpipe 

Pickle, a small quantity 

Pine, pain, uneasiness 

Pit, to put 

Placard, public proclamation 





GLOSSARY. 


PlacK, aa old Scotch coin, the third part of a 


Restricked restricted 


Scotch penny, twelve of which make an 


Rew, to rej tnt, to compassionate 


EnjjUsh penny 
Plackleiis, pennyless, without money 


Rief, reef, plenty 


Rief randies, sturdy beggars 


Platie, diminutive of plate 


Rig, a ridge 


Plew. or pleugh, a plough 


Higwiddie, rigwoodie^ the rope or chain tha 
crosses the saddle ot a horse to support th« 


Pliskie, a" trick 


Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as the 


spokes of a cart ; spare, withered, sapless 


laws of Scotland allow 


Rin, to run, to melt 


Poortith, poverty 


Rinnin', running 


Pou, to pull 


Rink, the course of the stones ; a term in curl 


Pouk, to pluck 


ing on ice 


Poussie, a liare, or cat 


Rip, a handful of unthrashed corn 


Pout, a poult, a chick 


Riskit, made a noise hke the tearing of roots 


Pou't. did pull 
Powthery, like powder 


Rockih', spinning on the rock, or distaff 


Rood, stands likewise for the plural roods 


Pow, the head, the skull 


Roon, a shred, a border or selvage 


Pownie, a little horse 


Roose, to praise, to commend 


Powther, or pouther, powder 


Roosty, rusty 


Preen, a pin 


Roun', round, in the circle of neighbourhood 


Prent, to print ; print , 


Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold 


Prie, to taste 


Routhie, plentiful 


Prie'd, tasted 


Row, to roll, to wrap 


Prief, proof 


Row't, rolled, wrapped 


Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute 


Rowte, to low, to bellow 


Priggin, cheapening 


Routh, or routh, plenty 


Primsie, demure, precise 


Rowtin', lowing 


Propone, to lay down, to propose 


Rozet, rosin 


Provoses, provosts 


Rung, a cudgel 
Runkled, wrinkled 


Puddock-stool, a musheroom, fungus 


Pund, pound ; pounds 


Runt, the stem of colewort or cabbage 


Pyle,-- a pyle o' caif, a single grain of chaff 


Ruth, a woman's name; the book so callecr 




sorrow 


Q 


Ryke, to reach 


QUAT, to quit 


s 


Quak, to quake 




Quey, a cow from one to two years old 


SAE, so 




Saft, soft 


R 


Sair, to serve ; a sore • 


Sairly, or sairlie, sorely 


RAGWEED, the herb ragwort 


Sair't, served 


Raible, to rattle nonsense 


Sark, a shirt ; a shift 


Rair, to roar 


Sarkit, provided in shirts 


Raize, to madden, to inflame 


Saugh, the willow 


Ram-feezl'd, fatigued ; overspread 


Saul, soul 


Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward 


Saumont, salmon 


Raploch, properly a coarse cloth ; but used as 


Saunt, a saint 


an adnoun for coarse 


Saut. salt, adj. salt 


Rarely, oxceLently, very well 


Saw, to soiv 


Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes 


Sawin', sowing 


Ratton, a rat 


Sax, six 


Raucle, rash { stout ; fearless 


Scaith, to damage, to injure; injufT 


Raught, reached 


Scar, a cliff 


Raw, a row 


Scaud, to scald 


Rax, to stretch 


Scauld, to scold 


Ream , cream ; to cream 


Scaur, ipt to be scared 


Reammg, brimful, frothing 


Scawl, A scold ; a termagant 


Reave, rove 


Scon, a cake of bread 


Reck, to heed 


Sconner, a loathing ; to loathe 


Red':, counsel ; to counsel 


Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, &€• 


Rod- wat-shod, walking in blood orer the shoe 


Screed, to tear ; a rent 


tops 


Scrieve, to ghde swiftly along 


ReJ.wu>\, stark mad 


Scrievin, gleesomely ; swilUy 


Ree, half drunk, fuddled 


Scrimp, to scant 


Reck, snuike 


Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty 
See'd, did see 


Reekin', smoking 


Reekit, smoked ; smoky 


Seizin', seizing 


Remead, renvxly 


Sel, self; a body's sel, one»i self »lone 


Recjuite, refjuited 


Sell't, did sell 


Rest, U) stand restive 


Sen', to send 


Restit. stood restive stunted ; withered 


bent', 1, &c. sent, or did send it ; send it 


(9^ 




j 



(]l/>,S8AT^y. 



iervan*, Mcrvanj 

?iettJi;i\ seCfiir.g; to get a settlin', to be fright- 
ed into (juietness 

Sets, sets oft', goes away 

S'lachied, distorted ; shapeless 

Shaird, a shred, a shard 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one 2nd for putting 
the tail of a dog, &c. into, by way of mis- 
chief, or to frighten him away 

Shaver, a huvnorous wag ; a barber 

Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hollow 

^heen, bright, shining 

Sbeep-shank; to think one's sc If nae sheep- 
shank, to be conceited 

Sherra-inoor, sheriff -nmoor, the famous battle 
fought in the rebellion, A.D. 1715 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice 

Shiel, a ditch, a trench, a sluice 

Shiel, a shed 

Shill, shrill 

Shog, a shock ; a push ofTat one side 

Shool, a shovel 

Shoon, shoes 

Shore, to offer, to threaten 

Shor'd, offered 

Shouther, the shoulder 

Siiure, did shear, shore 

Sic, such 

Sicker, sure, steady 

Sidehus, sidelong, slanting 

Siller, silver ; money 

Sunnier, summer 

Sin, a son 

Sin', since 

Skaith, see scaith 

Skellum, a worthless fellow 

Skel]), to strike, to siap ; to walk witn a smart 
tripping step ; a smart stroke 

Skel pie- liiunier, a reproachful terra in female 
scolding 

Skel pin', ste])piiig, walking 

Skiegh, orskeigh, j)roud, nice, highmettled 

Skinklin, a small portion 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly 

Skirling, shrieking, crying 

Skirl 't, shrieked 

Sklent, slant ; to run aslant, to deviate from 
truth 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction 

Skouth, freedom to converse without restraint ; 
range, scope 

Skriegh, a scream ; to scream 

Skyrin', shining ; making a groat show 

Skyte, force, very forcible nioiion 

Slae, a sloe 

Slade, did slide 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence 

Slaver, saliva; to emit saliva 

Slaw, slow 

Slee, sly ; sleest, sliest 

Sleekit, sleek ; sly 

^lidd^y, slippery 

Slyne, to fall over, as a wet furrow from the 
pJougli 

Slypet, fell 

Siria', small 

Smedduni, dust, powder; mettle, sense 

Smiddy, a smithy 

Sinot>r, to sniottier 

StnoorM, smothered 

Sinoatie, smutty, obscene, uply 

Muvtne a nuiiier us coUecuon of small indi- 
vitUu'b 



I Snapper, to stumble, a stumble 
I Sna.sh, abuse. Billingsgate 
I Snaw, snow ; to snow 
Snaw.broo, melted snow 
1 Snawie, snowy 

Sneck, snick, the latch of a doer 
Sned, to lop, to cut off 
Sneeshin, snutf 
I Sneeshin-mill, a snufi-box 
I Snell, bitter, biting 
I Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, a&ftf 
' Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly 
Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair 
Snool, one whose spirit is broken with opprc». 

sive slavery ; to submit tamely, to sneait 
Snoove, to, go smoothly and coustantly ; tt 

sneak 
Snoifvk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 
Snowkit, scented, snuffed 
Sonsie, having sweet, engaging looks ; luckf 

jolly 
Soom, to swHn 
Sooth, truth, a petty oath 
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on thi 

ear 
Souple, flexible ; swift 
Souter, a shoemaker 
Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds o 

oatmeal soured, &c. flummery 
S»wp, a spoonful, a small quantity of an 

thing liquid 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle 
Sowther, solder ; to solder, to cement 
Spae, to prophesy, to divine 
Spaul, a limb 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with m:Te 
Spaviet, having the spavin 
Spean, spane, to wean • 
Speat, or spate, a sweeping torrent, after ua 

or thaw 
Speel, to climb 
Spence, the country prj-lour 
Spier, to ask, to inquire 
Spier't, inquired 
Splatter, a splutter, to splutter 
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch 
Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot 
Sprackle, sprachle, to clamber 
Sprattle, to scramble 
Spreclded, spotted, speckled 
Spring, a quick air in music ; a Scottish reel 
S}5rit, a tough-rooted plant, something lilu 

rushes 
Sprittie, full of spirits 
Spunk, fire, mettle ; wit 
Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery ; will-o'wisp, or ig 

nis fatuus 
Spurtle, a stick, used in makisg oatmeal pud 

ding or porridge 
Squad, a crew, a party 
Squatter, to flutter in water as a wild dup* 
Squattle, to sprawl 

Squeel, a scream, a screech; to scream 
Stacher, to stagger 
Stack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 
Staggie, the diminutive of stag 
Stalwart, strong, stout 
Stan', to stand ; stan% did stand 
Stane, a stone 

Stang, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to stmg 
Stank, did stink ; a pool of standing water 
Stap, hto]) 
Stark, slout 



vjLOSS Alt X 



StartlP, to run as cattV'' stuna: hv the gad-fly 

Staumre!. a blockhead \ half-witted 

Stnvv, dio S'eai ; to surfeit 

Stech, to cram the belly 

S'echm, Craiiiininfi: 

Sfeek, to shut ; a stitch 

Steer, to molest ; to stir 

Stceve, firm, compacted 

Siell, still 

Sten, to rear as a horse 

Sten'l, reared 

Sttntsf, tibute; dues rf any kind 

Stey steep ; ^leyest, steepest 

Stibble, stubble; st;bble-rig, the reaper in 
harvest who takes the lead 

Stsck an' stow, totally, altogether 

Slile, a crutch ; to halt, to limp 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winchester 
bushel 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old 

Stock, 8 plant or root of colewort, cabbage, 
&c. 

Stockin, a stocking-; Throwing the stockin, 
wnen t.-.e bride and bridegroom are put nito 
bed, and the candle out, the former throws a 
stocking at random among the company, 
and ttie person whom it strikes is the next 
tha: will be married 

Stoiier, to stao:ger, to stammer 

StO' k'.d, made up in shocks as corn 

Stoor, sounding hollow, stiong, and hoarse 

Stot, an ox 

Stoiip, or siowp, a kind of jug or dish with a 
handle 

Stour, dust, more particularly dust in motion 

Siowlins, by stealth 

Stown, stolen 

Stoyte, to stumble 

S track, did strike 

Strac, straw ; to die a fair strae h( ath, to die 
in bed 

Straik, did strike 

Straikit, stroked 

S'ra[)p n', tall and handsome 

Straught, straiglit, to straighten 

Streek, stretched tight; to streich 

Striddle, to straddle 

Stroan, to spout, to piss 

Studdie, an anvil 

Siumpie, diminutive of stump 

Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind; to walk 
sturdily; hufl^ sullenness 

Stufi', corn or pulse of any kind 

Sturt, trouble; to molest 

Sturtm. frighted 

Sucker, suear 

Sud, should 

Siigh, the continued rushing noise of wind or 
water 

Soutfiron, southern; an old name for the Eng- 
lish nation 

Swaird, sward 

Swall'd, swelled 

Swank, stately, jolly 

S wankie, or swanker, a tight stripping young 
fRJIow or girl 

Swap, an exchange ; to barter 

Swarf, U) swoon ; a swoon 

Swat, did sweat 

Swatch, a sample 

S-w ats, drink ; good ale 



Sweaten, sweating 

Sweer, lazy, averse; dead-sweer, extremely a 

verse 
Swoor, swore, did swear 
Swinge, to beat ; to whip 
Swirl, a curve ; an cdJymg blast, ov pool ; a 

knot in wood 
Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots 
Swith, get away 
Swither, to hesitate in choice; an irresolute 

wavering in choice 
Syne, since, ago ; then 



TACKETS, a kind oi nails for driving mtc 
the heals of shoes 

Tae, a toe ; three tae'd, having three prongs 

Tairge, a target 

Tak, to take ; takin, taking 

Tamtallan, the name of a mountain 

Tangle, a sea-weed 

Tap, the top 

Ta})etlebs, heedless, foolish 

Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance 

Tarrow't, murmured 

Tarry-breeks, a sailor 

Tauld, or tald, told 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person 

Taiited, or tautie, matted together ; spokeii 
ol hair or wool 

Tawie, tliat allows itself peaceably to be hand- 
led ; spoken of a horse, cow, &c. 

Teat, a small auanti y 

Teen, to provoke; p evocation 

Tedding, spreading . fter the mower 

Ten-hours bile, a saght feed to the horses 
while in the yoke, m the forenoon 

Tent, a field-pulpit ; heed, caution i to take 
heed ; to tend or herd cattle • 

Tentie, heedful, cautious 

Tentless, heedless 

Teugh, tough 

Thack. thatch ; thack an* rape, clothing ne- 
cessaries 

Thae, these 

Thairras, small guts ; fiddle«strings 

Thankit, thanked 

Theekit, thatched 

Thegither, together 

'i'heinsel, themselves 

Thick, intimate, familiar 

Thieveless, cold, dry, spited ; spoken of ■ 
person's demeanour 

Thir, these 

Thirl, thrill 

Thirl d, thrilled, vibrated 

Thole, to Kuff'et, to endure 

'Jihowe, a thaw ; to thaw 

Thowless, slack, lazy 

Thrang, throng ; a crowa 

Tluaivple, throat, windpipe 

Thrave, twenty-four sheaves or two shocks 01 
corn ; a considerable number 

Thraw, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict 

I hrawin, twisting, &c. 

Thrawn, sprained, twisted ; contradicted 

Threaj), to uiamtain by dint of assertion 

Threshin, thrashing 

Threteen, thirteen 

1 bristle, thistle 

Through, to go on with ; to makR oat 



GLOSSARY 



Tbrouther, pell-mell, confusedly 

Thu<.l,^to make a loud iiitermittent noise 

'J'hiimpk, tnuiuped 

TnyseL thyself 

Till't, to it 

Timiner, timber 

Tine, to lose ; tint, lost 

Tinkler, a tinker 

Tii<t the gate, lost the way 

Tip, a ram 

Tippence, twopence 

'1 irl, to make as light noise ; to uncover 

Tirlin, uncovering 

Tither, the other 

Tittle, to whisper 

ritthn, whispeiirig 

Tocher, marriage portion 

Tod, a fox 

Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child 

Toddlin, tottering 

Toom, empty, to empty 

Toop, a ram 

Toun, a hamlet ; a tarm-house 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet ; to blowr 
a horn, &c. 

Tow, a rope 

lowmond, a twelvemonth 

Towzie, rough, shaggy 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head-dress 

Toyte, to totter like old age 

Transniugrified, transmigrated, metamor])hos- 
ed 

Trash trie, trash 

Trews, trowsers 

I'rickie, full of tncks 

Trig, spruce, neat 

Trimly, excellently 

Trow, to believe 

Trowth trijth. a petty oath 

Trystfc, an appointment ; a fair 

Trysted, appointed ; To tryste, to nnake an 
appoinhnent 

Try't, tried 

Tug, raw iiide. of which in old times plough- 
traces were ireqaently made 

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, o ' gl 

Twa, two 

Twa-three, a few 

'Twad, it would 

Twal, twelve ; twaKpennie worth, a small 
quantity, a penny-worth 

N.B One penny English is 12d Scotch 

Twin, to part 

Tyke, a dog 

U 

UNCO, strange, uncouth; very, very great. 

prodigious 
Uncos, news 
UnKenn'd, unknown 
Unsicker, unsure, unsteaay 
Unskiiith'd, undarr.aged, unhurt 
Unweetiug, unwittingly, unJtnowuigl/ 
Upo', ujwin 
Urchin, a hedgehog 



VAP'RIN, vapouring 

Vera, very 

V^irl, a riut;; round a column, &C. 

i^ittJe, con. of all kinds, food 

(12^ 



WA*, wail ; wa'a, walbi 

VVabstet, a weaver 

VVad, would : to bet ; a bet, a pledge 

Wadna, would not 

Wae, wo; sorrowful 

Waefu', woful, sorrowful, wailing 

VV'aesucks ! or waes me ! alas ! O the pity 

VV^aft, the cross thread that goes from the shut 

tie through the web ; woof 
\'\'^air, to lay out, to expend 
Wale, choice ; to choose 
M'aled, chose, chosen 
Walie, ample, large, jolly ; also an intsrjee 

tion of distress 
Wame, the belly 
Wamefu\ a belly -full 
Wanchancie, unlucky 
Wanrestfu', restless 
Wark, work 

Wark-lume, a tool to work with 
Warl, or warld, world 
M'^arlock, a wizard 

M^arly, worldly, eager on amassing v^ealth 
^\ arran, a warrant; to warrant 
Warst, worst 

WarstlM or warsl'd, wrestled 
Wastrie, prodigality 
Wat, wet ; I wat, I wot, I know 
Water- brose, brose made of meal and wacei 

simply, without the addition of milk, but. 

ter, &c. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand 
Wauble, to swing, to reel 
Waught, a draught 
Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth 
VVaukxife, not apt to sleep 
Waur, worse ; to worst 
Waur't, worsted 
Wean, or weanie, a child 
Wearie, or weary ; many a weary body, man? 

a ditferent person 
Wepsor w«asand 

Wz^vir t" the stocking. See Stocking 
^V.>e, Liti.e; Wee things, little ones; Wee 

bit, a small mat ter 
Weel, well; Wer-lfare, welCire 
Weet, rain, wetness 
Weud, fate 
We'se, we shall 
Wha, who 
Whaizle, to wheeze 
Whalpit, whelped 
Whang, a leathern string ; a piece of cheese, 

bread, &c. , to give the strappado 
Whare, where; Whare'er, wherever 
Wlieep, to fly nimbly, jerk ; penny-wheep. 

small beer 
Whase, whose 
M'hatreck, nevertheless 
\^'hid, the motion of a hare, running but not 

frighi«Hi ; a lie 
Whiddm . running as a hare or cony 
Whigmeieeries, whims, fancies, crotchets 
Whingin', crying, complaining, fretting 
Whirbgigpms, useless ornaments, trifilng ap. 

pendages 
Whissle, a whistle.; to whistle 
Whist, si'enre ; to hold cneV whish , to br 

silent 



03r,OSSARY 



{^'jiisk, to sweep lo lash 

VVhiskii, lashetl 

V\' hitter, a heaitj draught of liquor 

V^'hun-srane, a whin -stone 

W'hyles, whiles, sometimes 

\Vi\ with 

Wicht, wight, powerful, strong; {nr^ntive ; 
of a superior genius 

^Vick, to strike a stone in an oblique direc- 
tion ; a term in curling 

\\ icker, willow (the smaller sort) 

W'iel, a small whirlpool 

Wifie, a diminutive or endearing term for 
wife 

^rUyart, bashful ind reserved ; avoiding so- 
ciety or appearing awkward in it, wild, ti- 
mid, strange 

Wimple, to meander 

\\ inipl't, meandered 

A'iniplin', waving, meandering 

Win, to win, to winnow 

»Vin"t, wituUd as a bottom of yam 

•Vin', wind ; Win's, wind* 

IVinna, will not 

vVinnotk, a window 

\rinsonie, hearty, vaunted, gay 

Win tie, a staggering motion ; to stagger, tc 
reel 

Winze, an oath 

Wiss, to wish 

Withouten, without 

Vrizeii'd, hide-bound, dried, shrunk 

Wonner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appella- 
tion 

Wons, dwells 

'A'oo'. w'/ol 

V\'oo. to court, to make love to 

Woodie, a rope, more properly one made of 
withes or willows 

vVoor-bib, the garter knotted b«lrw the kaon 
wit! % couple of loop* 



\Vordy, worthy 
Worset, worsted 
V\'ow, an exclamation of pleaturt m wot, 

der 
Wrack, to teaze, to vpv 
\V raith, a spirit, or gnost ; an appantion «x. 

actly like a liWng person, whose appeara »i 

is -aid to forbode the person's approaclu. ' 

death 
\^'rang, wrong; to wrong 
Wreetn, a drifted heap ot snow 
Wud, mad, distracted 
Wumble, a wimble 
Wylp,, to beguile 
\^'yliecot, a flannel vest 
Wyte, blame ; to blame 



Y 

YAD, an old mare ; a worn out horse 

Ve; this pronoun is frequently used for 

Yearns, longs much 

Yearlings, born in the same year, coevab 

Year is used both for singular and plural 

Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray 

Yell, barren, that gives no milk 

\'erk, to lash, to jerk 

Yerkit, jerked, lashed 

^'estieen, yesternight 

Yett, a gate, such as is usually at tht SB 

into a farm-yard or field 
Yill, ale 
Yird, earth 

Yokin', yoking ; a bout 
^'ont, beyond 
Voursel* yourself 
Yowe, a ewe 

Vo«ie, dunkiutiTC of jirm 
Yule, Chri8tiU4N 



c^'-v. 



